


Old Dog No Tricks

by Marquesate, TABrown



Series: Nil Desperandum [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Quantum of Solace (2008), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Action, Action/Adventure, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Friendship, Implied Sexual Content, Implied Torture, Kidnapping, M/M, Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 00:00:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 35,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquesate/pseuds/Marquesate, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TABrown/pseuds/TABrown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after the events in <i>Vita Mortis</i> and <i>Canteen Gossip</i> MI6's Quartermaster is kidnapped by persons unknown for reasons unknown. </p><p>Bond's worst nightmare has become a reality, and he is determined to get Q back, with or without M's approval. <i>Old Dog No Tricks</i> is the story of this impossible mission by the one-armed, ex-007 as he encounters - for better and for worse - pieces of his past.</p><p> </p><p>  <img/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All tags, ratings, characters and notes refer to the entirety of this fictional work, not to individual chapters.

“Sir?”

Bond turned at the voice with genuine surprise. “Jacobs, what are you doing here?” Airport greetings were not in the agent’s usual job description. His service record for the last five years had been stellar; ever since Bond’s evaluation mission.

“Sir, I need to talk to you in person.” Tom nodded at the junior agent Bond had been evaluating this time. “Wilson, handle the luggage, we will meet you at the car park, level three.”

The young man nodded, silent as he had been for most of the mission, and walked briskly towards the luggage claim.

“What is it?” Bond growled as soon as Wilson was out of earshot.

“Just a moment, Sir, the chapel is over there, it is empty.”

Bond nodded curtly, on high alert, and followed Tom to the inter-faith chapel, which had been closed to the public for a short period. They locked the door behind them.

Tom turned to face Bond, tablet in hand. “Sir, Q has been taken.”

“Taken?” The change in Bond would have been frightening, had Tom not been used to the man’s ability to remain a dangerous presence.

“Kidnapped, Sir. Approximately eight hours ago.”

“Who?”

“We have no leads, Sir.”

“Excuse me?” Bond felt cold, all of a sudden. Not fear, not panic, but icy cold he had never experienced before. “Eight hours?” Turning the cold into focused anger which gave his lined, pale eyes a sharp gleam. “Why was I not informed earlier?”

“There was no way to inform you on the flight without going through the crew, and we have no leads,” Tom repeated.

“Is the information you have so far on here?”

“Yes, Sir.” Tom handed the tablet over.

“CCTV?”

“None.”

Bond raised his brows.

“Exactly, Sir. This was executed professionally.”

“And you have no leads? No demands? Nothing?”

Tom took a deep breath, exhaling quietly and slowly. “No, Sir, nothing. Our best people are on it.”

“Apparently they aren’t good enough.”

Tom winced. “We’re to return to headquarters immediately.”

“Of course.” Bond showed no reaction, no facial expression; frozen into rigidity, as if he had no emotions whatsoever.

He said nothing more as they made their way out of the chapel and to the car park. Not even as Tom drove them to headquarters through the heavy London, and neither as they exited the car in MI6’s underground car park.

Junior agent Wilson knew better than to ask questions - and Tom knew better than to be fooled by Bond’s lack of reaction.

They remained silent in the lift, and as they passed others in the hallways, none dared to meet Bond’s eyes. A steely-eyed Moneypenny awaited them in her office.

“Eve.” Bond acknowledged her with a sharp nod.

“James.” Her own greeting was only marginally less brisk. “M is waiting for you.”

Bond nodded again and opened the heavy wood door to M’s office.

“Commander Bond,” M stood up as they entered.

“Sir,” Bond greeted in return. “I have been briefed on my way here. What else can you tell me?”

“Please take a seat.” M indicated the chairs, and all three of them sat down, with Bond in the middle.

“I can tell you very little else,” M started, voice level, “nothing is out of place at your house, and to all appearances, Q was walking to the Tube station when he vanished into thin air.”

“This morning?” Bond narrowed his eyes. “They must have known MI6 would be alerted much quicker after a morning kidnapping than a night one. Besides, why was Q not picked up by the driver?”

“He’s refused the driver for the inward trip for months, whenever you were away on evaluation,” Eve shook her head, “he only used the service to go home.”

“He never told me,” Bond started, but was cut short by a commotion at the door.

It opened to reveal one of Eve’s assistants. “I’ve got the cat here, Sir, like you requested.”

“The damned cat?” Bond growled. “How is the cat going to help?”

“Camera on his collar might be the last footage we have of Q,” Eve answered, “and anyway, I promised Q that I’d look after Mr Turing should he ever be unavailable, so you wouldn’t have to.”

“Camera in his collar?” It had seemed physically impossible, but Bond managed to sit up even straighter. “Q had installed a camera in the blasted cat’s collar, and we are looking at the footage right now?” He was going to have serious words with Q once he’d found him. _When_ , not if.

Eve nodded, opened the carry case and let the protesting creature out, removing his collar at the same time. She pried off what had appeared to be a decorative stud, then flicked it into what looked like a USB key that Tom had handed to her, and fiddled with the equipment at the side of the room. A short moment later, the projection appeared on the blank wall.

Bond sat as still as a statue as the first images flickered to life. Fine, white cotton sheets as the cat was sleeping on the bed. The peace on screen was soon shattered as two figures came into view. Entangled and moving together, stark naked, and obviously Q and Bond.

M cleared his threat. “Miss Moneypenny, I do believe the current footage is not going to give us any clues as to Q’s abduction, I suggest we fast forward.”

“Shame,” Eve commented, but did as requested. Much to the relief of Bond, and no doubt both of the other two men.

Eve fast forwarded almost to the end of the recording, past a great deal of footage of sheets, treats, food stolen from unwitting agents, and laps, before she stopped at images of Q shrugging as he put away the cat’s carry case, then headed out the door. The footage that followed was fuzzy and out of focus, as though being seen through a double glazed, bulletproof window, but showed two men following Q as he walked down the street. The video continued for a few more seconds, showing Q as he was about to turn the corner, then sudden movements from the two men, as they quickly approached him while a car arrived fast and stopped beside them.

“That is it?” Bond asked, as the footage changed to fur, with Mr Turing curling up on the windowsill.

“Apparently,” M agreed. “Miss Moneypenny, see that our audio visual experts extract as much information from this as possible.”

She nodded and retrieved the USB stick, heading out the door to hand it to a minion.

Mr Turing jumped up onto M’s vacant desk chair and curled up, watching the humans in the room.

“I assume there have been no attempts at communication from the kidnappers?” Bond asked.

“A little difficult when we have no leads on who they are,” M retorted.

“Unless they were _asking_ for something. Like ransom.” Bond frowned.

“Nothing,” M confirmed. “Where is Tanner?” changing the subject.

“On his way in, Sir,” Moneypenny had returned. “He is on paternity leave for two weeks.”

M frowned. “When did that happen? I suppose that means Tennyson won’t be available, either,” his tone was slightly irritated, as though MI6 managerial staff chose to breed solely to inconvenience him.

“Sir,” Bond stopped him, “could we return to the issue at hand, that of MI6’s Quartermaster having been abducted by persons unknown for reasons unknown to a location unknown?”

“Yes, we are getting to that, Bond.” M ran fingers through his thinning hair, a sign he was very agitated. “As of now there are no clues, no indications who, what or why he’s been taken, with no hints as to any threat directed towards him.”

“Which means you don’t even know where to start.” The only indication of Bond’s state of mind was the whitening of his left hand’s knuckles, tightly gripping the armrest. “Who have you got on it?”

“All of Q branch who aren’t running active missions,” Moneypenny answered before M could open his mouth, “and all of Analysis on duty.”

“I’m having 005 and 008 brought in,” M added, “they’ll take the lead for the retrieval.”

“You think _they_ have any idea where to start?” Bond’s enunciation had become as sharp as a blade.

“Better than anyone else,” M retorted.

“This is incorrect and you know it,” Bond snapped.

“Who, then?” M said wearily.

“Are you seriously asking me that?”

“James, please,” Moneypenny tried to calm the storm that was brewing, while Tom wisely remained silent. Bond had been too calm, too controlled, with no emotions on the surface. She knew what that meant.

Bond ignored her completely. “Sir?”

“I know what you want, Bond, but I cannot let you go out to wreck whatever quest or vengeance you want,” M’s gaze was steady, “not even for Q.”

“Wreck?” Bond stood up from his seat, ramrod straight. “I would find Q or die trying, and do not tell me that you don’t know that.”

Moneypenny had risen as well, looking as if she was about to try and calm Bond down, but a small gesture from M stopped her.

“Precisely my point, Bond,” M seemed unfazed. “You would stop at nothing, regardless of what got in your way, not thinking of anything else. I need a team who will go after this with a clear head.”

“And in the meantime Q will suffer,” Bond spat out the words.

“He will be found, _without_ the entire world exploding around us.”

“Q is worth the entire world exploding,” Bond snarled, bending close to M, “the entire _universe_.” He abruptly turned, ignoring Moneypenny’s protest, and stormed out of the door. Nearly running into a dishevelled Tanner on the way, he barked “Congratulations,” at him, as he continued down the corridor and to the stairs that would take him to Q-branch.

“Wha...?” Tanner stared after him, then peeked through the open door. “Sir?” He looked from M to Moneypenny to Tom, who had remained seated.

“That went rather better than I thought,” Moneypenny observed.

“Q has been taken,” M explained wearily.

“Kidnapped by unknowns,” Tom continued.

“And we just told Bond.” Moneypenny finished.

“Shit.” Tanner closed the door and fell into the recently vacated seat.


	2. Chapter 2

Raw data streamed across every single projectable surface, and the sound of frantic typing permeated the area as soon as Bond opened the door into Q branch, a hive of caffeine-fuelled activity.

“I want to see the latest projects Q has been working on,” he ordered.

There was a pause as a woman and man, two of Q’s most senior minions, exchanged nervous glances. “That’s just it, Sir,” the young man told him. “He hasn’t had any special projects lately, he’s just been running standard missions with 004 and 009 and...” another pause... “and 007...”

If Bond twitched at the number, it was so minuscule that no one noticed. This was the second 007 after himself already. “Look at older projects. Anything out of the ordinary, or anything connected with current known terrorist cells.”

Another, slightly terrified exchange of glances amongst the two. “Sir, there isn’t anything out of the ordinary, and he hasn’t been working with terrorist cells.”

“That’s _our_ job,” the young woman added. She was Q’s second in command and slightly less terrified of Bond than anyone else.

The boffins really got younger and younger, Bond thought as he recognised her face.

“He’s been mainly doing the state-based operations for the last year,” she clarified.

“Which states?” Bond demanded.

“Iran, Syria, and France, but that last one’s just for fun.”

“For fun?” Bond frowned. “I knew about Iran and Syria, but not France. I need more information on the latter.”

The young man shrugged. “They hack us, we hack them, nothing serious, we test each other out.”

Bond moved so quickly, the guy never saw him coming. Left hand twisted in the collar with frightening strength, Bond held him close to his own face, making a point with every single word he spoke, quietly and precisely. “Q’s life is at stake. His health and his sanity, or do you think that whoever kidnapped him will not go as far as torture him, if he doesn’t comply with whatever they demand? If I ever see you, or anyone else, not talking the situation seriously, I am going to rip out your guts with my fingernails. _Do_. _You_. _Understand_?”

Silence had fallen across the entire branch, everyone staring at Bond, and only the sound of strangled gulping that accompanied frantic nodding.

“Good, now tell me exactly what the French project was all about.” Bond let go of the young man. “I want to know every single detail.”

The second in command swallowed, and began babbling. “It started when the French tried to hack into the PM’s files at the last G20 meeting. Q worked on a new defence that meant that all the triggers would be dealt with on our internal systems, with nothing on the web once they got in, so the NSA wouldn’t be tipped off.” She took a deeper breath. “There wasn’t much, only that at the same time there was trouble in Egypt again, and we found more breadcrumbs about Egypt than we’d expect in a French attempt.”

“Any identifiers?”

“Alexandria rather than Cairo,” the first minion choked out, “which surprised us at first. It came from Paris. La Defense.”

Bond stood very still, except for his left hand, slowly clenching and unclenching. “Keep digging,” he said finally, “concentrate on that lead.”

They both nodded frenetically. “Sir. Yes, Sir.”

“I suggest you don’t tell M about this request. That is all for now. Call me on my private mobile if you find anything. The number is in Q’s file, as next of kin.” With that he turned abruptly and stalked out of Q-branch.

Everyone paused collectively, then bent and returned to their furious coding.

* * * * *

Bond avoided Moneypenny and Tanner, taking a route through the back stair case to the underground car park. He had to get home; he had to _think_ , and right now all he could do was fighting to keep the emotions at bay, which kept him from thinking. He’d be of no use to Q if he couldn’t think, and if M believed he could keep him out of the rescue then he was very much mistaken.

The drive home felt like an eternity, despite the traffic being light, as if the streets themselves knew not to inflict London’s chaos on him.

Bond immediately spotted the ‘unobtrusive’ cars parked on the road, at least one was a _Prius_.. He knew exactly who it was and what it meant, and the rage Bond had been forcing down came bubbling up. He needed to _think_ , and he had to be on his own.

He had barely stepped through the door before he barked at the people in their flat: “Get out!”

They team took one look at the infuriated ex-double-O and filed out, though the terrible looks of pity told him all he needed to know.

“If there was anything to be found here, Q and I would have found it!” Bond shouted after them, “you incompetent bunch of morons!” He received no answer.

Bond turned, surveying the open space, and detecting all the little clues that someone had gone through their belongings; had rifled through their life together. No ripped out drawers, no messy wardrobes, but the signs were there. The rage was growing, he felt violated above and beyond the obvious – Q. Taken. His Q.

Bond grabbed the vase with fresh flowers, that their housekeeper insisted on providing, and hurled it against the nearest wall, roaring in frustration. With his heartbeat thudding in his ears, he focused on the framed photographs on the wall, tore one after another off their hooks, flinging them after the vase. He watched glass break, wood splinter, and debris slither in the wet mess down the creamy-painted plaster. He would have continued, tearing and throwing while yelling out his rage and fear, if his private mobile phone had not started ringing.

Breathless, adrenaline pumping, he dropped the mobile once, clumsy with his left hand. Cursing before he managed to take the call. “Bond!”

The stuttering on the other end was too agonising to bear, and he barked “What?” into the handset.

“I think we have found something, Sir.” A female voice, obviously the second in command. “A link between Alexandria and Paris. Very tenuous, with the only connection being a French newspaper, but flagged up thrice.”

“What is it?”

“A series on cyber security and getting past the NSA, Sir.”

Bond was silent for a while, only the minion’s breathing audible. “Send me the details. Use Q’s private line.” He cancelled the call and let himself fall onto the sofa. Sitting and staring unseeing at the opposite wall, where the framed photographs had been.

Long seconds passed before the tell-tale beeps indicated that the data had been sent through. Bond wandered over to one of the tablets charging on the side table, swiping it to show the news articles, together with name and address of the media consortium behind the newspaper. It took him a moment before he made the connection of what was staring at him: the head office – the name of the media mogul – a link between the past and the present. This was going to take some time to prepare, but at least he had a lead.

* * * * *

It had almost reached dawn by the time Bond had finished his initial research. He took a shower, eyes closed under the hot spray. The rage had been replaced with cold determination. He would pursue this angle, no matter what. With or against MI6. He would find Q, one way or the other, no matter the cost.

He groomed carefully, everything taking longer than usual, no hand to help with some of the trickier tasks. Dressing as impeccably as ever, he packed his customary travel bag, and left a note for the housekeeper to take care of the mess, and not to expect him back anytime soon, before bolting the door behind him.

It was an even quieter drive back to headquarters, and he made his way from the underground car park to the senior offices on his usual route. Walking past Q-branch and Analysis’ cubicle dwellers, passing tired looking staff in the corridors, most carrying cans of energy drink. As he’d expected, when he reached M’s office, Moneypenny was not on her desk. He was sure she had taken the infernal feline beast home.

He didn’t knock, pointless with the specially padded doors anyway, and simply tried the handle, which gave way as he’d hoped. He’d expected Mallory to be either still - or already in his office, and indeed found the director examining a large map projected onto a wall. “Yes, Bond?” M said, not turning around.

Bond had been right, M had never left HQ, but he had been incorrect in one aspect: Mr Turing was contently curled up on the leather chesterfield sofa.

“I have a lead.” Bond closed the door behind him and stepped into the room, halting a short distance from the desk.

M turned around. “Paris, I understand.”

Bond started.

“They are, if possible, only slightly less terrified of me than they are of you.”

“They told you,” Bond stated calmly. He shouldn’t have been surprised.

“They are meant to be telling me,” M’s voice was dry.

“I suppose you are right.” Bond took another step forward, until he stood behind one of the chairs in front of M’s desk. He placed his left hand onto the backrest and was about to say something, when the door opened.

“Tanner,” M raised his voice, “anything from the feline footage?”

Tanner stuck his head inside, looking even more tired and worn out than earlier the previous day. “No, Sir, unfortunately not.” He hesitated, glancing at Bond’s back. “ If you don’t need me anymore today, I’d like to leave for a few hours.”

“Ah, how is Bianca?” M asked, “and the baby?”

Tanner took in a deep breath. “Yes, Bianca is happy to be of any help that is required.” He let out his breath.

M nodded. “Good. Her mother’s come to stay and help with the baby, I understand?”

“Yes, she will arrive in…” Tanner looked at his watch, “an hour. I’d like to pick her up from the airport.”

“Always good to keep the mother-in-law happy. Go, then, I’ll send any data to Bianca’s secure line.

“I will see you later, Sir,” Tanner was about to leave, when Bond turned around.

“Thank you.” That was all, but Tanner understood. He nodded and left.

Bond returned to face M. “Paris,” he repeated.

“You’d go whether or not I said so, wouldn’t you?” M wasn’t expecting a reply.

“Sir, I know that at the age of fifty-one I am considered old, and I know I am a cripple. But I do have something that no one else has.”

“Which is?”

“Connections.”

M nodded slowly and thoughtfully. “I cannot officially condone your involvement, Bond, you must know that.”

Bond nodded once. “I know.”

M sighed, then went to sit down at his desk, indicating the chair Bond was holding onto. After a moment’s hesitation Bond did as ask, sitting ramrod straight, the useless arm in his lap.

“Q is very popular at MI6, is he not?”

Bond simply nodded once more.

“I also believe, to my eternal surprise, that you equally have quite a lot of what one might call friends here at MI6.”

Not knowing where Mallory was going, Bond narrowed his eyes, steady blue gaze on M.

“I take that as a yes.” M steepled his fingers and leaned closer. “While I cannot officially endorse your involvement, Bond, I do not see why I should prevent any MI6 employees from supporting you in your endeavour in their own free time. I regard this see time to be flexible, and it includes lunch breaks, coffee breaks, team breaks, general breaks, et cetera.”

“Yes, Sir,” Bond finally knew what M was really saying, “I appreciate it.”

“Good.” M studied the lined face in front of him. The closed expression, and the unwavering determination in the pale blue eyes. “I want _both_ of you back, Bond.”

“Sir?” The inflection at the end was slight, not really a question.

“I mean it, Bond,” M said firmly. “Both of you. In one piece each.”

Bond’s expression never changed. “Sir, may I repeat that I am fifty-one years old, and that I was a double-O for longer than all of them taken together. I will bring Q back, no matter what. One way or the other.” With that he smoothly got out of the chair. “If you don’t require me any further?” A rhetoric question, since he was already at the door. After a nod from M, Bond stepped through and closed the double-doors firmly behind him.

“Well,” M said to the snoozing cat, “as expected.”

Mr Turing opened one eye lazily, then turned around and snuggled further into the seat.


	3. Chapter 3

Bond took a cab to St Pancras train station. It was quicker to catch the Eurostar to Paris, than to go all the way to Heathrow, and it would give him time to plan his next actions. He was going to take a step that M would have considered foolish, but Bond saw it as his only option. Asking someone, who could only be classed as an enemy, for information and help was insane by anyone’s standards - except for Bond’s.

The first class carriage was quiet; it felt strange not to have Q’s running commentary in his ear, and he barely stopped his left fist from clenching. Accepting the complimentary glass of champagne almost as reflex as he took out his tablet, he found a message waiting for him.

It originated from the ‘Le Signe Corporation’, sent by the owner’s PA, and telling him that Monsieur Le Signe was agreeable to a meeting in the media corporation’s headquarters, that very evening.

Bond’s fingers only tightened slightly on the tablet before he typed out the reply, accepting the invitation, and notifying the PA of his ETA plus half an hour for hotel check-in.

It was his best lead.

It was his only lead.

The fact that Le Signe had agreed to see him was less surprising to Bond than it might have been: there was only one reason why the twin brother of a now dead man - Le Chiffre, who had tried to kill him twice and had tortured him to extract the account information - should willing to meet him, let alone help him in his quest. Only one, and he was going to offer it.

Bond set his mouth in a grim line as the train started to slow, and was the first out onto the platform as soon as the doors opened. He hailed a taxi to the hotel, thinking about his next move, which required him to be more defenceless than he’d ever been. But Q was worth it, worth everything in fact.

The check-in at the exclusive L’Hôtel de La Trémoille was swift, and in less than the allocated thirty minutes, Bond had secured his palm-printed modified gun in the room’s safe. He quickly freshened up and checked himself over to ensure he remained immaculately turned out, before heading back down to the waiting taxi that had been called for him. Le Signe’s media empire resided, as expected, in Paris’s La Défense business district, housed in an ultra modern glass-built, a mere two years old.

He gave his name at the concierge desk and was escorted to the bank of lifts, where the same employee took him to the top floor. With a profuse apology, he was patted down for any concealed weapons once they’d reached their destination, a procedure Bond allowed stoically and with a raised eyebrow. He’d been right, of course. Le Signe wouldn’t take any risks. Only when he was deemed to be unarmed, was he allowed through the two large doors, which closed silently behind him once he’d stepped through.

The man, who had been standing at the floor to ceiling windows, with his back to the door, turned around a moment later, and Bond couldn’t help the small twitch at the sight of Le Signe: the spitting image of his dead twin brother Le Chiffre, but some years older, and without the scar and weeping eye.

“Good evening, Commander Bond,” the accented voice greeted him, “do come in.”

The office was sleek and minimalistic, glass and steel like the building. Le Signe moved to recline in a curved white leather designer chair, without offering Bond the courtesy of sitting down. “What brings you here today? I must admit I was rather surprised to see your request, considering you killed my brother.”

“I didn’t pull the trigger,” Bond’s facial expression remained neutral.

“Small details,” Le Signe dismissed the claim, “your direct meddlesome involvement caused my brother’s death.”

“Your brother, Monsieur Le Signe, poisoned me and tortured me. Forgive me when I do not offer you my commiserations.”

“He always was...impetuous.”

“Quite.” Bond took a few steps closer, until he stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by reflecting glass and steel. He kept his inscrutable gaze on the other man.

“Well,” Le Signe leaned back further, the picture of ease, “now that you are here, I am intrigued what it is that you want from me.”

“Information.”

Le Signe raised his brows. “Interesting, but what makes you think I would be inclined to provide you with information of any kind? Whatever is it that you think you can offer me in return?”

Bond had expected this, and he knew he only had one card he could play. He’d bested Le Chiffre at cards once, perhaps he could play the twin brother’s game just as well.

“Humiliation,” Bond said without inflexion.

“Pardon?” Le Signe sat up straighter, a tell for Bond that he had chosen the right card.

“I am willing to beg.”

Le Signe made a small noise and leaned forward. “Since when does SIS send their agents out as beggars?”

“I am not on an official mission.”

Le Signe’s eyes narrowed. “And, since when does SIS allow unofficial missions?”

“Do you really believe they could stop me?”

Le Signe relaxed visibly, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “No, I suppose not, even though I must say, you are not who I thought you would be.”

Bond forced down the frown that threatened to appear. “Which is?”

“Old and injured.”

“Occupational hazard.”

“Surely not the growing old.” The smirk reappeared. “I’ve been following your career after my brother’s death. You have always had a remarkable ability to avoid death, but coming here unarmed? My security might believe that, but I don’t.” Le Signe made a vague gesture towards the sling. “Anything hidden in there?”

“No.”

“Prove it.”

Bond slipped the sling off over his head and calmly laid it on the glass topped desk. His right arm immediately fell uselessly to his side, like the dead weight it was.

“Interesting,” Le Signe mused, “tell me more about that ‘unofficial mission’ of yours”

“My Quartermaster was kidnapped. No ransom, no pointers, except for a tenuous link between Paris and Alexandria.”

“ _Your_ Quartermaster? Commander Bond, surely you don’t have a quartermaster any longer?”

Bond didn’t reply, kept looking steadily at the seated man, who eventually leaned back, re-crossing his long legs and steepling his hands, while tapping his chin with both index fingers.

“I see...” Le Signe all but purred with audible satisfaction. “Is she beautiful as Ms Lynd was?”

Bond couldn’t quite suppress the twitch in his eye at the name, but his voice remained impassive. “Not a she.” He’d done his research, and this titbit of truth should tip the scales in his favour.

“Well, I never would have believed it. Commander Bond, in his mature years, a connoisseur of the ‘love that dare not speak its name’.”

Bond remained silent, there was nothing to say.

“Go on, then,” Le Signe made the same gesture as earlier, “show me what happened.”

Bond immediately shrugged out of his jacket, helped by his one good hand, the fine wool-cashmere catching on his useless arm before landing on the floor.

“Don’t let yourself be stopped.” Le Signe made it sound like he was doing Bond a favour, while watching him very closely indeed.

Nothing indicated what Bond might be thinking: not when he carefully loosened the tie and pulled it over his head - redoing the knot would be impossible for him - neither when he slowly undid the buttons of his dress shirt. He’d become adept at doing this one-handed.

At Le Signe’s gesture he pulled the shirt out of the waistband of his tightly tailored trousers, and let it hang open.

“What is stopping you now?” Le Signe asked.

Bond did not answer as he loosened his cuffs (thanking David, his tailor, for whatever magic he had concocted) and let the shirt slide off his shoulders, falling on top of his jacket.

Le Signe studied the mangled upper body with interest. “My, my, you have kept well.”

Echoes of another man with the same voice and same looks, in a dark cellar, while being tied naked to a chair.

“Except for that awful mess, of course,” Le Signe continued. “Turn slowly, let me have a look at you, or whatever is left of you.”

Bond did as instructed, relying on the fact that everything so far was playing out as he’d hoped. After a slow 360 degree turn, he stopped in the exact same spot.

“I see, that was not an accident.”

“No, not an accident,” Bond echoed, “unfinished business.”

“But finished now, I presume.”

“Yes.” Bond didn’t elaborate, he wasn’t here for sympathy.

Le Signe produced another halfway smirk. “Don’t keep yourself an unfinished business, either.”

It took Bond a moment to understand the meaning, but then he fumbled one-handed to open his belt, before sliding trousers and briefs down to his ankles. Stepping out of shoes and socks was less dignified, and caused an ugly chuckle from the man in the chair.

“As I said,” Le Signe commented with apparent satisfaction, once Bond stood back up straight, “very well kept indeed. Except for that rather unfortunate mess, you certainly meet my standards.” He twirled his finger once. “Go on, you know the drill by now.”

Bond once again turned slowly, certain he knew Le Signe’s intentions. Humiliation indeed, but he’d done much worse for much less.

Le Signe hummed with appreciation. “I want you at my desk and assume the position. I presume you know exactly what I mean?”

“I do.” Bond approached the desk without hesitation, and with the same businesslike attitude with which he cleaned his gun, he bent down, placed his useless right arm in front of him onto the glass, then braced himself with the left and spread his legs far apart. His mind blank, he reverted back to the old tricks of surviving the use of his body as a tool, while his dignity remained intact.

There was movement behind him, and the rustle of cloth as Le Signe stepped enough for the fabric of his elegant suit to whisper against Bond’s naked skin.

“Tell me,” Le Signe’s voice had dropped, speaking close to Bond’s ear, “what is the information you think I might have?” He ran his hand down the scarred back, letting it rest firmly on the bare arse.

“Our analysts found a connection in a French newspaper - your newspaper. A series on cyber security and getting past the NSA.” If Bond’s voice seemed a little hoarse to his own ears, it didn’t appear to be noticeable.

“What makes you think that this has anything to do with your Quartermaster?” The hand on Bond’s arse travelled between the cheeks, then back up again.

Bond couldn’t help the involuntary swallow. “He had been working on defending a hacking attack from France, and without ransom nor any information to the identity of the kidnappers, I suspect that the link is an attempt to use his brilliant mind.”

Le Signe didn’t reply for a while, continuing the stroking instead. When he finally spoke, his lips were so close, they touched Bond’s ear. “Very clever, Commander Bond.”

“Is it?” Bond kept his voice carefully neutral, ignoring the hand that was now patting him, like one would pet a dog.

“Commander Bond, I never say anything I don’t mean.” The petting continued for a while. It abruptly stopped as Le Signe took a step back. “And now get dressed and give me your smartphone.”

The swift shift made Bond jerk upright. “What?”

“Ah, how delightful. I did finally catch you off guard.” Le Signe chuckled as he returned to his seat and held out his hand. “Smartphone. Now.”

“Why?”

“Asking silly questions does not become you, Commander Bond,” Le Signe shushed.

Bond stared uncomprehendingly a moment longer, before he caught himself and retrieved his jacket from the floor. Finding the smartphone, he decided that whatever Le Signe intended to do with it, he could have it checked remotely by Q-branch for malicious breaches. He handed it over, then began the laborious task of dressing himself one-armed.

By the time he had put briefs, socks, trousers, briefs, and shirt back on, Le Signe had finished, handing back the phone. “I’ve put the contact details and last known location of my source into your phone, with an additional map reference.”

Bond nodded while pocketing the phone, willing this to be true.

“Let me help you.” Le Signe reached for the shirt buttons, causing Bond to twitch. “Now, now, don’t be so skittish. Buttoning a shirt one-handed can’t be an easy task.”

“I manage.”

“I am sure that you do.”

Standing so close that their shoe tips were touching, Le Signe meticulously buttoned the shirt and then smoothed it into the waistband of Bond’s trousers, before buckling the belt.

“Why.” Bond couldn’t help it, cursing the moment he’d asked.

“My brother was my brother, and his financial speculations founded my wealth, but he was also reckless and arrogant. While some might say the same about me, I do not condone torture, Commander Bond, not even on MI6’s finest.” He let the tie dangle from his hand. “Besides, I like my whores to be bought willingly.” He smiled sardonically while helping Bond to fasten the tie.

“Very different, then, the two of you.”

“Don’t be fooled, the difference is small but, I give you that, crucial.” Le Signe held the jacket open, for Bond to slip in, even helping him pull it into place over the useless shoulder, before handing over the sling.

Bond slipped it on and settled his right arm into it, then moved the phone from his trouser pocket to the inside jacket one.

“Good luck, Commander Bond.” Le Signe didn’t offer his hand, “and don’t come back. Ever. Do we understand each other?”

“Crystal clear.” Bond gave one nod before turning and heading out of the door.

A taxi was waiting outside the main doors of the building when Bond exited, though he saw nobody on his way down. He settled into the seat after giving the address of his hotel, and stared out of the window into the night, his arm pressed against the shape of the phone.

Bond was careful, waiting until he had entered the relative safety of his room, before checking the mobile. The information looked legitimate, and the coordinates pointed to Cyprus. He would have left straight away, had he not needed for Q-branch to check the validity. In the meantime, he should try and catch some sleep, he felt exhausted enough to manage a few short hours.


	4. Chapter 4

Bond didn’t come awake instantly at the unexpected sound of the room phone ringing. It took several seconds before he answered it, still half asleep and unaware of the time of day or night or the type of phone he’d actually answered.

“Bond?” The voice was female, British.“It’s Lucy Beauchamp. I’ve come for breakfast, do you want to come down to the breakfast buffet or shall I have Room Service bring something up?”

“Excuse me?” Bond scrambled to sit up, a lot more awake than he’d been just a moment ago. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m on holiday, and I happened to be in Paris, so I thought it would be nice if we could have breakfast together.”

“You _happened_ to be in Paris...”

“Of course,” Lucy replied breezily, “and as the Director declared, what I do in my own free time is nobody’s official business.”

“Right, yes.” Bond swung his legs over the edge of the bed, glancing at the clock that showed it to be just before seven. “I’ll be down in fifteen minutes.”

When he arrived in the sumptuous breakfast room, he spotted Lucy sitting at a table for two, reading on her tablet while eating a chocolate croissant, looking for all the world like any thirty-something fashion industry executive on a long weekend in Paris. “Uncle James!” she called out, sounding delighted, and standing up, “how wonderful to see you!”

“Lucy, my dear girl.” He smiled, quite genuinely, and went through the ritual of shoulder-touch while cheek-kissing in greeting. “I didn’t expect you here.” They both sat down, in the still fairly empty room.

A waiter silently appeared at Bond’s elbow, and at his nod, poured him a cup of coffee.

“I’ve got the next week off,” Lucy informed Bond promptly.

“That’s quite short notice, isn’t it?” Bond smiled like the benevolent uncle he was meant to be.

“It’s amazing what one gets when one asks, but I’m on a watching brief for a few files, so I’ll still have access to all the branch offices.”

“Excellent, your boss seems to be quite a good man.”

“He’s tough but fair,” Lucy agreed, hiding a smile behind her cup of tea. “I’ve got some things for you from home, after breakfast.”

“Trinkets?”

She nodded with a bright smile. “Mum sends her love and dad told me to make sure you are getting in touch with him.”

Bond looked thoughtful, sipping his coffee. “I wasn’t planning on staying long in Paris. I have travel plans for today.”

She didn’t look at all surprised. “I guessed so.”

Bond nodded, then glanced across at the elegant buffet where a lavish Continental breakfast had been laid out. “Lucy, could you get me something from the buffet, I trust your choice.”

“Of course, Uncle James.” She got up and headed towards the buffet, but not before unlocking her tablet and pushing it towards Bond. It was the preliminary analysis from Q’s minions, which indicated there had been a series of irregular transfers to a particular Cyprus bank.

He studied the information carefully, until she returned with a plate full of healthy looking delicacies.

“Do I look like I need to take care of my cholesterol?” Bond commented at the sight of the healthy morsels.

“You don’t look it, Uncle James, but one never knows with men your age,” she quipped loudly enough for a handful of new arrivals to hear.

They turned their attention back to the breakfast, until Lucy lowered her voice. Under the pretence of showing her uncle holiday snaps on the tablet, she asked him the crucial question all of Q-branch had been wondering about: “Where did you get the information from? Q-branch says it’s so far from the inside, even they couldn’t have found it.”

“I called on an old acquaintance.” Bond selected a miniature brioche, while she stole a piece of papaya from his plate.

“No one believes that.” She smiled brightly again, and he wished for a moment, she hadn’t become so adept at the job.

“It all depends on the definition of acquaintance.”

Almost any other person would have narrowed their eyes, but Lucy remained cheerful. “I suppose it does,” she paused, “do you need to visit him again before we leave?”

Bond huffed a dry laugh. “Well done, it’s a ‘he’ indeed, but another visit is out of the question. I was lucky I could give him what he wanted in return for the information.”

“If it was a female acquaintance, I wouldn’t have found you in the hotel you were checked into,” Lucy replied, as she finished her cup of tea.

“You expect too much from me, I’m considered to be beyond middle age.”

She snorted, but let it slide. “I hope it didn’t cost you too much.”

“No.” Bond’s answer was curt.

Lucy was clever enough to know not to go further. She was quiet for a second too long, by which Bond knew she was listening to someone on her earpiece. “Are you on the flight out this afternoon?” she asked, for the benefit of anyone listening.

“Yes, the earliest one. I forgot, what time is it?”

“At 1pm, getting there at 5,” Lucy answered smoothly.

“Which airline? I’m afraid I am getting rather forgetful.”

“Air France codeshare with Cyprus Air.” She smiled while pretending to check the information on her tablet.

“Good, I would so hate flying budget. Do you need my credit card?”

“No, don’t worry. My boss has just signed off a holiday fund we can dip into.” Her innocent smile was bright.

“Has he now,” Bond mused.

“Yes, it’s a brand new scheme and I’ve just been speaking to my line manager, Mr Tanner, he is organising everything. It’s lovely of them, isn’t it?”

“It is indeed,” Even in such dire straits, Bond couldn’t help the hint of a smile ghosting at the corners of his mouth. “Now, did you say your parents sent some trinkets for me?”

“Oh, yes, sorry Uncle James, I almost forgot. Have you finished your breakfast? I can show you in your room. My luggage is in the hotel’s lock-up.”

Bond checked his watch. “Almost done, yes. We have a few hours before the flight, I’ll extend my booking.”

They made their way to the front desk, arm in arm like indulgent uncle and favourite niece, talking about ‘family’ back in London. Lucy retrieved a smart-looking trolley case from the concierge while Bond extended his stay to be able to remain until the flight was due.

Back in the room, a secure transfer was waiting for Bond on his modified tablet, detailing several of the transactions, and requesting further banking information. If they were to connect the name to the location and contact, HQ required more data.

Lucy frowned, brow creasing, before she brightened and started flicking through her phone. “I’ll just call an acquaintance of mine.”

“An acquaintance, I see. You are going to go far, Agent Beauchamp.”

She grinned, “in the meantime, these are for you.” Unpacking a box from her trolley case, she opened it for Bond. It contained several other containers, all of which she opened for his inspection before stepping towards the window, phone on her ear.

Bond looked through the contents, finding radios, a couple of extra guns and additional ammunition, as well as code breaking equipment and a specialised GPS. In addition there were passports for him and Lucy. The ‘trinkets’ were of the highest standard, and more than he’d expected. He’d been able to get his palm-printed gun to Paris via the Eurostar, but he didn’t have diplomatic immunity for his luggage, unlike Lucy, through MI6’s directive.

He put the small earbud in and fixed the miniature microphone to a shirt button, activating the radio and giving his call sign.

“Hello Bond,” Tanner’s familiar voice came over the line, punctuated by a yawn. “Sorry.”

“For what, yawning or sending a young and capable agent my way, complete with weapons and gadgets, as well as budget and resources?”

“The first, mainly,” Tanner replied, “and for the second, she’s almost due for another eval anyway, so this is efficient for everyone. It’s all we could do on short notice, I’m afraid. Any queries? I’m sorry to report that we haven’t got much further with the data. All quiet. Whoever it is who has him, hasn’t put him to work yet.”

Tanner did not mention the other possibility, but Bond caught it straight away.

“It wouldn’t make sense to abduct Q for the sole purpose of killing him.”

“No,” Tanner’s voice was as level as always, “but the world doesn’t make sense.”

“The criminal world, though, does. It is all about gain, one way or the other. What does Q have that is so precious? Perhaps some secrets, but most of all his skills. Tanner, I am certain he is still alive, and that he is holding out. We would have realised if he had done anything. Besides, Q wouldn’t give in. He is tough as nails, tougher than I am.”

“Anyone who could manage Q branch is tougher than nails,” Tanner said drily. Bond heard a chorus of protests in the background.

“Anyone who willingly lives with me is either insane or a very special kind of tough.” Bond closed his eyes for a moment. “He’s alive, Tanner, trust me, and he’s waiting for me to find him. He knows that I will.”

“We know, Bond, we know,” Tanner’s voice was quiet. “You’ll be met in Cyprus with some specialist supplies and any new data.”

“Who are you sending this time?”

“We’re organising it as we speak.”

Bond knew when he wasn’t going to get anything else out of their chief of staff.

“How are Bianca and the baby?”

“Both well, her mother has arrived, and Bianca is eager to get her hands on the banking data. She’s already bored with nappies.”

“Nappies don’t spit out data,” Bond almost-joked.

“No, but they spit out a lot of other unsavoury things.” Tanner’s voice became serious once more. “Bond, we are feeding information back to the official team, you are aware of that.”

“Of course.”

“Is there anything you haven’t told me?”

“No,” Bond lied, but it didn’t feel like a lie. The additional information that he did have would be of no use to the team.

A pause, before Tanner said, “we’ll keep you updated with anything we find, and we’ve arranged for Lucy’s tablet to have secure transfers while you’re in the air.”

“Thank you,” more for letting the matter rest, than anything else. “I’ll be back online once we’re in Cyprus.”

* * * * *

They spent the rest of the morning going though the equipment that Lucy had brought, ensuring that it was in top condition (which of course it was), and preparing. The journey to Charles de Gaulle was uneventful, as was their boarding.

They didn’t talk much, with Bond either deep in thoughts or on his tablet, while Lucy worked on her own, ensuring they would have transport to RAF Akrotiri. They arrived in Larnaca on schedule, being ushered through a special line at immigration. After gathering their luggage Lucy loftily waved her diplomatic passport in front of the customs’ officers noses.

They’d only just stepped through the gate, when a male voice called out, “Uncle James!”

Bond started, then glared at Lucy. “You have _got_ to be kidding me. Tom? As my second relative?”

She just grinned. “Oh come on, any rich bachelor uncle in poor health has to have a few nieces and nephews hovering around like avaricious sharks. So try and look a bit like you’ve just been diagnosed with something terminal.”

“Poor health, I see.” Bond glared at her, and she wisely smiled beatifically in return, while keeping her mouth shut.

Tom was making his way towards them dragging a quite extraordinary amount of luggage. “I’ve organised our transport,” he called out brightly, before opening his arms to pull Bond into a bear hug. The sort that an over-enthusiastic nephew might administer.

“Still no breadcrumbs,” he said in Bond’s ear, “but all the other data’s checked out, and we’re in the process of extracting more banking data. We’ll have analysed by tonight.” He exchanged a look with Lucy, who gazed back innocently.

“Nice to see you, too.” Bond said loudly, once Tom had let go of him. “Let’s get to the car, I have a dinner appointment in two hours.”

A comfortable four wheel drive was waiting for them, indistinguishable from the large numbers let to tourists on the island. Tom loaded their luggage into the back, lifting his huge case with ease, before settling in the drivers’ seat.

“Do you need backup?” Lucy asked, once they were on the road.

“No.” Bond had opted, uncharacteristically, for the back seat. “I am meeting an old acquaintance, the former Deputy Commander British Forces Cyprus. I’ve known the retired Air Marshal Jonathan Crippen for over twenty years.”

Lucy made a disapproving sound. “Where are you meeting him?”

“Agent Beauchamp, that is hardly any of your business.”

“We need to find you if you insist on taking off,” Lucy persisted, “especially if we get more information from HQ.”

Bond growled. “When I suggested you for the double-O feeder programme I definitely didn’t make a mistake.”

Apparently satisfied, she sat back on her seat. “The food in the Officer’s Mess is terrible, by the way, in case you wanted to know.”

“I didn’t, but if you think either you or Tom are coming with me to the restaurant, then you are very much mistaken.”

She turned to peer back at him. “Wouldn’t dream of interrupting long reminiscences about the war.”

“Which war, Agent Beauchamp? And be careful how you answer.”

“All of them,” she looked solemn, “all the way back to the Peloponnesian War.”

“Short tunics and bronze shin guards,” Bond shook his head, “I see where you’re going with this.”

She replied with a grin. “The only reason anyone takes a Classics degree, isn’t it? All right, we’ll leave you alone. Even you can’t get into trouble at dinner with a respectable retired officer.”

Bond sighed. “I hope you don’t expect me to believe that. While you’re very convincing, you mustn’t forget I’ve been a professional liar for many more years than you. So, for simplicity’s sake, we are meeting at the 7 St. George’s Tavern, but if I even so much as catch a glimpse of either of you, I’ll think up a suitable punishment.”

Lucy turned back around “Done.” She put on her sunglasses, as Tom continued down the road to Limassol.

They got checked into the Four Seasons, where the ‘family’ of uncle, nephew and niece had booked one of the two luxurious and, most importantly, high-privacy garden suites in the adult-only area of the 5 star hotel. Politely declining the valet unpacking service, Tom organised the luggage retrieval, while Bond settled into the master bedroom, letting Lucy conduct the sweep and prepare the living room for setting up their base. The premises were clear, and Lucy went about setting up the laptops and other equipment, humming to herself.

Bond lay on his bed and tried not to think of Q, instead concentrating on how useful it was to have capable minions do all work for him.

Tom returned burdened like a pack mule with the rest of the luggage, and proceeded to unpack it in the living room, calling for Bond once he was done.

Bond exited his bedroom to find an arsenal being neatly laid out on the polished floor.

“That’s impressive, are you expecting a small-scale war?”

“It never hurts to be prepared,” Tom said getting out ammunition and counting it, “and we don’t know our next step, so I thought it better to get everything now while it’s relatively straightforward, than to worry about how to get it later.” He paused, “the grenades might be overkill, I give you that, but they can be ever so useful.”

“Seems to me you could never let go of your military background, with that love for deadly toys.” Bond cast his eyes over the impressive arsenal. “Well done. I’ll stick to my personal Walther, but then I wouldn’t be able to operate the guns you brought, anyway.”

“I’ve got some more ammunition for you,” Tom rummaged for the box, “something tells me we might need it. If not here, then later.”

“Good thinking,” Bond took hold of the spare clips, “and now I’m going to make use of the private pool. I’ve got an hour before meeting Crippen.”


	5. Chapter 5

The man who stood up from his table in the restaurant and walked towards Bond with a welcoming smile was trim, silver-haired and deeply tanned. “James!” he exclaimed, “so good to see you again.”

“Likewise,” Bond replied, exchanging a firm handshake when a left hand was offered to him without the slightest hesitation. “How’s retirement treating you, Jon?”

“Very well, very well indeed. I spend most of my time sailing, while Mary has taken it upon herself to be a devoted grandmother. Come, take a seat, I’ve ordered their famous meze, you’ll enjoy it.”

Bond sat down, and Crippen filled his glass with red wine. “Let’s get to the business at hand, you asked me about a name and what I know about it, if anything. I’ve done some digging, but need to know more. What is the connection to MI6, and why the urgency?”

Bond took the offered wine and drank a sip, appreciating the earthy taste of the tavern’s house wine. He had made up his mind before coming here, being obtuse wouldn’t do, he’d known Crippen for over twenty years. If anyone, he could trust the military man. “My Quartermaster was abducted, no ransom, no demands, no link, except for a tenuous one via Paris, which flagged up the name I gave you and this location.”

“That must be awful for you,” Crippen leaned forward, “how are you taking it?”

Bond was startled. Only a lifetime of keeping absolute control stopped him from showing any visible signs. “How do you think?”

Crippen tilted his head. “Hard to tell with you,” he said at last, “but given your two lasses, I don’t imagine it’s any different with a bloke.”

Bond nodded, hiding the sudden thoughts behind the steely-faced mask of a man who was holding back his emotions. “I need to find him,” he leaned across the table, “unofficially.”

“I understand.” Crippen nodded. “You, or MI6?”

“I’m not on field duty any longer. I’m only a couple of years younger than you are, besides...” he indicated his right arm, which - curiously - Crippen hadn’t commented upon.

“Yes,” Crippen nodded as their first course arrived, tiny plates of olives and cured meat, with triangles of pita bread, hot from the oven. “Still, it seems the new work suits you, you never were meant to be behind a desk.”

Strike three, and Bond had to hide his reaction by studying the meze dishes. “Indeed.” Three strikes - no coincidence. But why? And how? “Is there anything you have found out about the name? Is it an alias?”

A bark of a laugh. “Of course it’s an alias. Nobody in their right mind would be mixed up with Le Signe and the Cyprus banking sector using their real name. Not these days.”

Le Signe. Bond had never mentioned that name. “I knew I could rely on you, my old friend.” Bond awkwardly added olives and dip to the pita bread one-handed. “But tell me, do you have a hunch who it could be, and how and why they are connected to Egypt?”

There was a look of astonishment in Crippen’s eyes, quickly covered, but Bond had noticed it. He noticed everything. “I’m waiting for more information to come in,” he said too smoothly, “and it’s not something for discussion in a public place. I go out to the harbour most mornings, why not meet me there.”

“Tomorrow morning, then, and for tonight, let’s be old friends who share good food and wine.” Bond raised his glass. Pale eyes, as sharp as ever, gazing straight into Crippen’s, unflinching.

Crippen raised his glass and gently clinked it against Bond’s. “To old friends, good food and wine.”

* * * * *

The rest of the dinner was spent eating and reminiscing about mutual acquaintances. At the end of the evening, they walked out the door together. Bond declined the offer of a lift, as Crippen walked to the car park. Saying their good-byes until the next morning, Bond behaved like a man with perhaps a bit too much wine, but definitely nothing else on his mind.

As he passed a nearby posh bar with outside seating, he spotted Tom and Lucy, inconspicuously chatting and laughing at a table, but he did not stop. Merely casting one short but pointed glance at them, he continued on to the privacy of their hotel.

Fifteen minutes after his arrival, Tom and Lucy stumbled into the suite, giggling and to all appearances just a trifle tipsy. Both immediately straightened up after the door was firmly locked, and Lucy produced a USB key. “Here it is, banking data of suspicious transactions in Cyprus during the last two weeks.”

“Where did you get that from? Can’t have been an official channel.” Bond raised his brows.

“I called an old acquaintance,” Lucy sat down and plugged it into one of the laptops. “You might remember him: The Hon. Richard Fotherington-Grey. Dicky, we used to call him. You evaluated him in Monaco. His first, and last, solo mission. He resigned about five years ago and went into banking, and he does liaison work between UKFIU and the major banks.”

“Of course I remember him,” Bond smirked briefly, “I believe the video clip is still in circulation. What have you got on him to produce the data that quickly?” Walking over to the laptop, he leaned over it.

“Nothing but the truth,” Tom commented from where he was making cups of coffee for all three of them. “She said that if he didn’t, she’d tell his wife why he really left MI6.”

“Devious ,” Bond nodded, “I approve.” He swiftly scanned the columns of data that appeared on screen. “We need to get Tennyson onto this ASAP, she’ll be able to figure out a suitable algorithm to run against it. Send the data to the secure tablet, I see if I can get the Tanners on the radio in my room.” He left for the master bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Evidently, all three Tanners were available, if the screams of the new arrival were any guide. “Sorry,” Tanner yawned, “can’t get him to sleep.”

“Bianca awake as well? I’m sorry, but I really need her expertise.”

“Ah yes, I’ll take him, Bianca, it’s Bond, he’s found something.”

“Hello,” Bianca’s accented voice came over the line, “what have you got?”

“Banking data of suspicious transactions in Cyprus over the last two weeks, flagged by UKFIU. I had a swift look, but it needs an algorithm to make sense of it. You’ve got the name we are looking for, which is undoubtedly an alias. And I think...” he trailed off, the thought as sudden as it was unbidden.

“...you think?”

“Look for the code DCBF. I have a hunch.”

He could almost hear her frown of concentration. “Will do.” There was the sound of typing. “I’ll be a couple of hours. I’ll text or ring when I’m done, so take a nap, and be glad you can.”

“I’m in your debt. I’d offer to babysit in return, but I dare say you wouldn’t want to take me up on it.”

A snort, but an affectionate one. “You’d ignore him until he was eighteen, and then take him out and get him blind drunk.”

“I blame your husband for knowing me too well.” Bond was about to cancel the radio call, “and Bianca? Thank you for not mentioning that code to anyone.”

“I won’t,” she promised, as the call ended.

“Coffee?” Tom stuck his head around the door of Bond’s room.

“No, thank you, I’ll retire now. Tennyson is on the case.”

“Goodnight then,” Tom said, exiting.

* * * * *

Three hours later, Bond was woken from a light slumber, the only kind of half-hearted rest he could manage, by an incoming radio call. “Bianca?” he asked quietly, not knowing if Lucy or Tom might be awake in the other bedroom.

“I have found what you were looking for.” Her voice sounded extremely tired. “You were right. I don’t know what that code means, but it is clearly there, creating an obvious trace.”

“What can you tell me?”

“DCBF has been receiving a constant stream of staggered sums from a variety of Middle Eastern places, usually hidden within splitter-transactions re-routed via legitimate banks and small enough sums not to flag up suspicion. They all end in Cyprus.”

“Any evidence that it’s moved on later?”

“Yes, over half of it appears to have gone on to various places in England, mostly concentrated in London and the counties surrounding it, such as Suffolk and Sussex.”

Crippen’s family home. Bond had been to Suffolk twice.

“Thank you, that is very useful.”

“Let me know if there’s any more.”

“Now get some sleep, I’ve kept you from it long enough.”

“I wasn’t getting any anyway, but thanks for the thought.”

“Always.” With that Bond cancelled the radio link and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.


	6. Chapter 6

It was still quiet in the other rooms, when Bond’s mobile rang in the early morning.

“Bond,” he answered quickly.

“James, I hope I didn’t wake you.” Crippen’s voice sounded far too jolly for the time of day, “but I thought it’s going to be a scorcher again today, so why not go for a walk along the cliffs, it’s stunning out there and nice and cool in the morning.”

Bond didn’t hesitate, even though he could hear the unspoken lines as clearly as if they had been said out aloud. Crippen wanted absolute privacy. “Good idea, I’ll take a shower and meet you in half an hour.”

“I’m happy to pick you up, why not make it twenty minutes in front of the hotel? I know a nice little café that serves breakfast.”

Again, Bond showed no hesitation, no obvious suspicion. “That’s fine with me.”

“Excellent, I’ll see you then.”

Bond moved with stealth to get ready, careful not to alert the two young agents, and within twenty minutes he was showered, dressed, and had slipped out of the door.

Crippen was in the hotel foyer when he arrived, with the air of a man who had only just come in the door. “Bond, punctual as always.”

“Old habits die hard.” Bond took to the passenger seat of Crippen’s posh SUV.

“Are you very hungry?” Crippen asked. “I thought we should take our walk while the air is still fresh and have the breakfast later.”

“Whichever way, I’m easy.” No, he wasn’t, never had been, but he needed to know.

“Fair enough, the point has a great view,” Crippen started the big vehicle.

“I’m sure it does.”

The drive was done in silence, with Crippen concentrating on the ever more winding and narrowing road up to the cliff top, while Bond seemed as relaxed as a man who had all the time and patience in the world. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

Crippen eventually parked the car at a lofty spot with magnificent views over the sea, and the hustle of the harbour below. He got out and waited for Bond to do likewise, then stood with his hands in his pockets, overlooking the sea like a king overlooks his realm.

* * * * *

“Shit! He’s gone!” Lucy bellowed in Tom’s ear, shaking him awake. “Bloody bastard’s given us the bloody slip!

“Whu…? What?” Tom nearly fell out of bed at the yelling. “What do you mean?”

“Bond!” Lucy slightly moderated her voice, “he’s gone. Get on the phone to reception and find out if they’ve seen him. I’ll call Q branch, he might have active trackers in him.”

“Why the fuck would he vanish?” Tom swore, immediately getting to work, still in his boxers. Reception told him that Mr Bond had left the hotel twenty minutes ago and that he had been picked up by a gentleman with a bronze Japanese make SUV. At Tom’s insistence they described the man, and having watched Crippen the previous night, they knew immediately who it was.

“Lucy!” Tom called, but Lucy was on the radio, making a gesture to stall him.

“Anything?” She was pleading with someone on the line. “Not even a microchip? Can you get Talat on please?” A few seconds wait, then, “anything in Q’s private files? Come on, he’s got to have them. Oh, all right, I’ll wait.” She looked at Tom. “What?”

“Crippen.” He wouldn’t have followed his stellar career path, if he hadn’t immediately made the connection. “Bond must be suspecting him, why else would he have left secretly?”

“But why leave us out?” she groused, “If he suspects Crippen, even respect for old friends is out the window.”

“What if he figures that getting him alone might make him talk? Give him information and new pointers?”

“Does he think we wouldn’t be discreet?” Lucy huffed and then turned back to the radio. “Talat? What do you have?”

“He’s Bond,” Tom shrugged, then fell silent, listening to the one-sided conversation.

“A private tracker? No? A secret one then?” Lucy frowned, “the ‘death’ one? Oh…” Her frown deepened while listening. “You’re the second in command and I heard a rumour that Q has been joking about you being so good he fears you might steal his job. Surely you can hack into his personal system?”

Another pause. “He what?” Her voice rose. “Hurry then.” She turned back to Tom. “Bond. He sent her Q’s passwords.”

“Why would he do that?” Tom added almost immediately, “of course, in case anything helpful could be found in his personal files. Q will be so pissed off.”

“I think,” Lucy replied drily, “by the time we find him, it’s the least of the things Q will be pissed off about.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” Tom checked the nearest clock. “I get dressed and sort the arsenal. You stay on the line.” This was what he’d been training for, the role he’d grown into and what he excelled at: supporting a field agent and soon a double-O, out in the field.

Lucy nodded and frowned in concentration at whatever Talat was telling her. “He’s where? Cliffs?” she groaned, “he always does have to go for the dramatics. Tom?” she called, “do we have any rockclimbing gear? I think at least one of us might need it. And a speedboat.”

“Bloody rockclimbing gear? You must be kidding me, of course not!” Tom stuck his head back into the room, “what do you want that for?”

“Bond is on the cliff, presumably with Crippen.”

“You think if Bond suspects Crippen is involved in foul play, then he’s probably right because his hunches are never wrong,” Tom thought quickly and out loud, “and if he agreed to meet at such a remote place it means he is planning some sort of confrontation.”

Lucy nodded several times.

“Damn. I’ll organise a boat, but I don’t think climbing equipment is necessary. If they are on the cliffs there must be a path. I’ll stay out of their sight if necessary. You get dressed.” He paused for a moment, “you want the sniper rifle. If we’re wrong then Bond will be none the wiser. If we’re right then shit might blow up on that cliff.”

“You got it in one.”

“Okay,” Tom gave a quick nod. “Sniper rifle is in the bag beside my pillow. I checked it last night. Give me ten for the rest.” With that he vanished back into the room.

Lucy nodded grimly and went for the weapon, nodding approval at its condition. Tom did have an eye for the things, and she was grateful for the long hours she’d put into her marksmanship. Changing into T-shirt and linen trousers, while listening to Tom in the next room behaving like a self-entitled brat demanding a speedboat before breakfast. She could hear the satisfied tone in his voice as he was successful.

He returned to the room. “Lucy, send me Bond’s coordinates and make sure Talat keeps me in the loop with any developments. The boat is ready and lying in berth 7a, your contact is Stavros Papoluous. I’m making my way out to the cliffs. Keep the radio link open.”

“Will do,” Lucy agreed, donning a pair of huge sunglasses and immediately pushing them up. She picked up the sniper rifle - which looked like a camera tripod in its black nylon bag - and another satchel with a handgun and extra ammunition which looked reasonably like a camera case. “Good hunting and meet you where Commander Bond is.”

“Same to you.”

Each of them turned to their own task.

* * * * *

Bond walked up to Crippen and stood beside him, both men taking in the fresh morning sea air. Neither of them eager to break the silence, but Bond was running out of time. Three and a half days since Q had been taken; he had unfortunately a too-good first-hand idea of what could have been done to him during that time. He had to bite the bullet and get Crippen to talk.

“Since when have you been selling secrets,” Bond’s question shattered the peace.

Two heartbeats of silence. “What gave me away?” Crippen eventually asked softly.

Bond continued to stare out over the sea. “You showed no surprise at my arm, you were informed about my relationship with Q, and you mentioned Le Signe’s name. There had to be a leak that kept you informed about me. The question is, why.”

“You mean Le Signe didn’t tell you?” there was genuine surprise in Crippen’s voice.

“No. Interesting that he warned you, though. Does he know who you are?”

“James, for all I know you are bugged.”

“And for all _I_ know, Q is currently being tortured. Isn’t that more important to me than you are, don’t you think?”

A huff. “Point taken. But the fact remains: are you bugged?”

“No.” Bond turned towards Crippen. “Un-bugged and un-armed. Go on, check.”

Crippen took a step closer. “The sling. Take it off.”

Bond said nothing,  doing as Crippen had demanded. The right arm immediately fell uselessly to his side, as he waved the sling in front of Crippen’s face. “Splint as well?”

“Of course.” Crippen took the sling to examine in, satisfied it contained no bugs, doing the same with the full wrist and hand splint once Bond had taken it off.

“Satisfied?”

“No, what’s in your pocket?”

“Just my phone.” Bond pulled the smartphone out of his left trouser pocket. “It’s off, as you can see.” It was, but it was also a highly modified piece of equipment which looked as inconspicuous as the next phone off the shelf.

Crippen looked it over, then nodded and gave it back. “Fine.”

“Can I have the splint and sling back? Having a dead weight hang by your side is rather uncomfortable.”

Crippen gave Bond a suspicious look, but consented, watching as Bond smoothly donned the equipment.

“Why, Jon?”

“Would you believe it was because I didn’t fancy going back to living in the Mess after divorcing Claudia? So easy, a little gossip here and there, amazing how much people are willing to pay for it.”

“And then you got a taste for the money.” Bond made it a statement not a question.

“Said like someone who’s always had it,” Crippen spat out.

“Bloody hell, Jon, I was at both of your weddings. I know your kids. Have I really never known _you_? Don’t you care what your information is being used for?”

A bark of laughter. “If not from me, they’d have got it off some other sod.”

Bond’s distaste was visible in his face. “I was mistaken in believing all those years that your loyalty to our country matches mine.”

“Loyalty?” Jon look astonished, “even after all it’s done to you?”

“I _chose_ to do the job, just like you chose yours. Britain didn’t force me, why should I blame it for my own decisions?” Bond sneered, “when it comes down to it, you are the same as every other crook. It’s all about the money, it’s all about the greed. You disappoint me, Jon.”

“Really?” Jon snarled, “not as much as I was disappointed.”

“In what?” Bond took a step back.

“The system.”

“You have to explain that to me. Right now you sound like a disgruntled terrorist.”

“You never saw it, did you? Silver spoon and all.” Crippen barked another ugly laugh. “All the snide remarks, the sideways glances. Just because I made my way up from nothing with hard work and grit.”

“Silver spoon? You think so? A pile of old stone and no family, brought up in boarding schools. Would you have wanted that in exchange for the money?”

“Not just the money. You still don’t get it: everything else - as though nothing counts except which schools you went to and what your father did; your family name and your ancestry. The slights, the sniggers, hell, even the rubbish after Claudia went off with my CO, of all people!”

“So that’s it, you found a way to punish them for their slights?”

“At the beginning, yes.” Crippen gazed off into the horizon. “Walk with me.”

“If you think I am any less disappointed in your lack of character and your weakness for giving a damn about the slights, then you are very much mistaken.” Bond turned to walk at Crippen’s side.

“Always so noble,” Crippen mused, “would that we all were.”

Bond snorted humourlessly. “Nobility is all I have to cling to, I’m a semi-retired killer.” He added as an afterthought, “for Queen and Country.”

“Ah yes, but we’re not all like that, you see. It’s so very easy, once you start. They pay very good money for very inconsequential things.”

“How can you be sure they are inconsequential?”

“Everything is inconsequential, eventually.” Crippen gave a small smile.

“You are spouting a lot of bullshit,” Bond spat out, while they kept walking along the cliff top. “Every bit of information, no matter how seemingly inconsequential, can wreak havoc in the wrong hands.”

“Who determines that, in the end?”

Bond stopped. “I give you an example. Somebody plans to hack into the UK’s most secure databases. They need a genius hacker for this. They plan to abduct MI6’s Quartermaster because of some _seemingly inconspicuous_ piece of information somewhere down the line. Do you see where I am going?”

“Of course,” Crippen still looked unruffled. “You want your lover back, not to mention your Quartermaster. Rather careless to have lost him, regardless of who took him.”

“Excuse me,” Bond’s facial expression had turned glacial, “are you telling me it is _my_ fault Q was kidnapped?”

Crippen raised an eyebrow. “I’m telling you,” he continued calmly, “that given his value, thinking that he could live a normal existence commuting to work was rather idealistic.”

“Q has a driver, but he is also a free spirit, and I was away on an evaluation mission. That is all I have to say on the matter of responsibility.” Bond straightened. “I wonder what it is you are not telling me.” He had kept his left hand in his trouser pocket, and was now hitting the button he knew would activate the smartphone and start acting as a one-way radio, transmitting to HQ. Q had surpassed himself with that deceptively simple modification.

“You think I will tell you anything?” Crippen turned to face Bond. “Why would I?”

“If the over twenty years of us knowing and, I believed, respecting each other means anything to you, then you tell me so I can try save the person I love. If you don’t care about that, then you might tell me to stop a good man like Q being tortured and killed. If none of that is of any meaning to you whatsoever, then perhaps you might want to show off to me with what _you_ know and what I _don’t_ know, because frankly? I know nothing and I am desperate. I’ve begged Le Signe, I am willing to beg you.”

“How did you get onto Le Signe, anyway?” Crippen seemed to be unmoved by the monologue.

“His media corporation owns the French newspaper that published the flagged articles.”

“Clever,” Crippen mused, “how many minions did you work to death to get that? All to be in completely the wrong place? Beach, not jungle?”

“Jungle?”

“These days, people are so obsessed with deserts they forget that there are just as many dubious characters in other parts of the world. Wars on Drugs just aren’t as glamorous as Wars on Terror now, are they?”

“No, they are not.” Bond agreed quietly, intently looking at Crippen. All the while knowing that the conversation was being broadcast to HQ. “I was wrong all along, is that what you are saying? South America?”

Crippen nodded, looking triumphant. “Other jungles being cleared for palm oil and all, not much left elsewhere, is there?”

Bond was silent for a while, connecting facts and hunches. “You don’t just sell our government’s secrets,” He finally concluded.

Another little smirk. “Might as well be hung for a horse as a sheep, isn’t that what they are saying?”

“Smart ,” Bond conceded. “Selling from one informant to the other. South America comprises of several countries, though.”

“Of course, and each more suspicious than the next.”

“I see.” Bond turned away from Crippen to look back over the sea. His next decision was made easily, knowing that any information would reach those who could use it. He walked towards the cliff’s edge, gazing down onto the harbour. “Not telling me what you know, so that I can’t attempt to rescue Q, makes you infinitely more clever and more powerful than me, is that right?”

Crippen did not answer straight away, merely stepped up next to Bond.

* * * * *

It had taken all of Lucy’s restraint not to run at full speed to the jetty, forcing herself to stick to a fast walk. She got into the sleek speedboat with an imperious nod at the attendant and headed off. “How far to Bond?” she asked into the radio, waiting for Talat to respond. She hoped that Tom could make it as quickly to Bond’s location landside.

“Bond has hit the emergency radio-out button on his phone, and he’s been transmitting the conversation,” Talat responded in her ear. “Crippen has been talking about South America. They’ve gone quiet right now, and their location is at the cliff’s edge, right above the harbour.” She seemed to switch, “Jacobs, how far are you? I can’t get hold of your signal.”

“I’ve got a car, I’m heading out towards the beach road,” Tom’s voice crackled over the feed. “I’m about five minutes from the cliff, if I floor it.”

“Do it,” Lucy cut in, “I have a gut feeling Bond is planning something.”

“When isn’t he?” Tom replied.

Lucy, spotting open water, increased her own speed. Guided by Talat, she soon found herself in the harbour looking up at the cliffs, scanning them for any sign of Bond.

* * * * *

Bond kept his gaze locked on the horizon. “Did you give money to your daughters?”

“Yes, for Roedean and Cambridge and all the rest of it. So nobody ever sneers at them.”

“You turned them into exactly the same people you hate, with money from betraying your own country.”

“Ironic, isn’t it?” Crippen refused to be flustered, until he stopped, and started. “Who did you have following me?” he changed the topic abruptly.

“No one,” Bond frowned, “why?” Surely, it couldn’t be.

“I suppose there just happens to be a speedboat down in the bay tracking the cliffs?” Crippen’s voice was tight.

“What?” Bond leaned over, scanning the sea below. “It’s impossible. You’re paranoid.”

“You know it’s impossible how?” Crippen’s voice was light, as Bond felt a shove between his shoulder blades. Caught unaware, he started to slip, kicking to find leverage with his feet. Unable to stop the momentum, he slipped over the cliff’s edge, frantically grabbing at anything with his left hand. He managed to close his fingers around an outcrop of rock the same instance his feet found a minuscule ledge, holding his entire body weight with one hand and his toes.

Crippen stepped to the edge. “Not that it’s of any use, but as far as I know, they’ve taken him to Bolivia.”

“You’re wrong there,” Bond forced out, every muscle in his body protesting, every sinew straining to hold onto desperately, but he knew it was a losing battle. He had no way to pull himself back up, and he couldn’t hold on for much longer. “It is of use.”

“You lie.”

“No point.” Bond gasped out a bitter, breathless laugh. “Everything you said was transmitted to HQ.”

“How?” Crippen’s face had turned into a grimace. “You were clean.”

“Smartphone. Q’s cleverer than you are.”

Crippen roared in anger, “and you’ll never see him again!” He raised his foot.

* * * * *

“Go, go, go!” Talat yelled into both Lucy and Tom’s ears. “Get Bond out, now!”

Lucy didn’t answer, eyes trained on the crosshairs of her sniper rifle, finger poised to pull.

“Almost there!” Tom’s voice sounded forced as he was running at top speed.

* * * * *

Bond braced himself for the boot that was about to slam down onto his hand, but the pain never hit, instead the snap of a gunshot, and a surprised look on Crippen’s face as he fell forward, only barely missing Bond.

He could not turn around to watch Crippen’s falling body, not without risking his own precarious hold. Feeling is fingers lose their grip, he grunted with exertion and the futility of his struggle. Holding on with barely more than his fingertips, he was about to give into the inevitable, as a strong hand suddenly grabbed his wrist.

Tom’s face appeared over the edge of the cliff. “Just in time, Sir,” starting to pull.

“Damn right.” Bond forced out, unable to help in his own rescue, utterly dependent on the younger man’s strength. It was neither elegant nor tidy, but within a few agonising moments Bond was safely back on firm ground, if sprawled in an undignified heap.

“Bolivia,” he groaned, still catching his breath while lying still. Too sore to move, in pain as if his left arm and had been torn out of its socket, and feeling every single of his fifty-one years. “I have an old friend in Bolivia.”

“A friend like Crippen?” Tom let himself fall to the ground beside Bond.

“No, not at all like Crippen.” Despite everything, Bond smiled.


	7. Chapter 7

They were seated in the plane, first class, a thick silence surrounding them. Bond sat a couple of seats away from Lucy and Tom, repeatedly rolling his left shoulder and flexing his hand, while trying to find a more comfortable position.

Both young agents had their heads down over their tablets, no doubt dealing with the fallout of the corpse of the former Deputy Commander of the British Forces in Cyprus floating in the harbour. Yet every time Bond got up from his seat, he noticed that one of them kept their eyes on him, to the plane toilets and back.

On his last returned from the loo, he checked his watch and estimated it would be another twenty minutes before the descent into El Alto International Airport. As anticipated, both of the young agents glanced at him as he neared his seat, but this time he startled them by letting out a “boo!”

“Sir?” Lucy frowned once she’d stopped twitching.

“Just checking if you expect me to vanish into thin air, the way you track my movements _inside a plane_.”

Lucy had the good grace to colour ever so slightly. “No, Sir, it’s just...”

Bond raised his brows when she trailed off.

Tom finished her sentence. “We were wondering who that friend of yours is.”

Bond sat down in the seat beside them. “Camille Montes, heard of her?”

“The Head of the Bolivian Secret Service?” Lucy asked.

Bond nodded. “We go back a long time, all the way to the initial Quantum days.”

Both heads turned to face him, clearly fascinated. “You’ve kept in touch since?”

“Yes, she is one of the few who know me.” And the only one he’d never had sex with, but that was classified information. “I haven’t seen her in person for years.”

The younger agents exchanged looks. “Do you think she’ll be able to help?” Lucy asked, almost as though she didn’t dare to believe in a positive answer.

“Yes. She’ll do anything that is in her power to help, and her power is substantial.” Bond gave a slight smile, “we have history.”

“I bet you do,” Tom muttered, not quite under his breath.

Bond huffed a toneless laugh. “Despite the general consensus to the opposite, I did not have sex with everyone I met. Did you read the files on Quantum?”

Both agents nodded solemnly. “You think we’re facing something similar again?”

“Not sure, because if we did, we wouldn’t have found a single trace nor pointer. You’ll have read about Agent Mitchell. Personal bodyguard to the previous M for eight years, and in the employment of Quantum, without SIS having a clue.”

“True enough, we have a few crumbs this time.” Lucy sighed. “How soon before we land?”

Bond checked his watch again. “About ten minutes, the fasten seatbelt sign should come on soon.”

* * * * *

The plane landed smoothly and as they disembarked (Tom carrying Bond’s bags), they were met outside the sky bridge by a smartly suited man in CIA-type shades.

“Mr Bond and company?” He addressed them.

“Yes,” Bond made a small gesture towards both Lucy and Tom who’d immediately become suspicious, addressing them. “Calm down, I spoke to Ms Montes and we are being picked up.”

Lucy and Tom exchanged looks, but followed Bond and the man through the VIP area of the airport, until they were met outside at a private exit. A huge, black SUV with tinted windows was waiting for them, a driver standing beside it.

“Sirs, Ma’m,” the driver greeted them, then went to take hold of their luggage.

“Ms Montes is awaiting you at her residence,” the first man told them while holding the door open. “It’s a short drive out of the city.”

“Thank you,” Bond got into the car, and after a moment’s hesitation, the two younger agents followed. If Commander Bond didn’t have any misgivings, they were willing to trust these people.

As promised, the air-conditioned ride was short. Laz Paz was soon behind them, the lush countryside beckoning. They soon turned into a drive, where a heavily guarded gate swung open upon their arrival. As the car slowed, the double doors of the house opened. A stunningly beautiful woman with neck-length dark hair and highly intelligent eyes, wearing a sharp-cut black skirt suit and heels stepped out. She was smiling brightly, and by the time Bond had exited the vehicle, she opened her arms.

“James! It is so good to see you.”

“Camille, a delight.” Bond’s smile was genuine as he gave her a one-armed hug before kissing her on the cheek. “May I introduce Lucy Beauchamp, Tom Jacobs.”

She smiled at both of them and went to shake their hands. “You are most welcome in my home. I am so pleased you are helping James to find his partner.”

Lucy exchanged the handshake with her usual smooth courtesy, but Tom was staring at the woman in disbelief. He squawked when Lucy not-so discreetly bumped him.

“Oh, oh sorry.” He shook himself and quickly went to take Camille’s hand, shaking it a tad too hard and holding it a little too long. “So pleased to meet you,” he stammered.

Bond cleared his throat with a sideways glance at the moonstruck Tom. “Camille, may I talk to you in private?”

She nodded, “of course.” She looked to Tom and Lucy. “You must be tired after the long flight. Antonio will show you to the guest rooms.”

“But, Sir!” Lucy started, when Bond cut her short.

“No. This is none of your business. I wish to talk to Ms Montes in private, because my private life is not to be discussed with agents of MI6.”

Lucy looked like she was going to protest further, but Tom laid a gentle hand on her arm, shaking his head. She settled down, but still looked mutinous. Bond ignored her silent rebellion and left the two young agents in the care of the employee.

He waited for Camille to slip her arm into his left, and then let himself be guided inside, to her private study. The room was light and spacious, sunlight streaming in through slatted blinds, tinted green by plants growing in front of the windows.

“Look at you, James,” she turned to face him, “when have you last slept?” Cupping his face in her hands, she studied him with concern and kindness.

“It’s been over four days, Camille,” Bond explained quietly.

She understood, smiling slightly. “Loving someone makes us vulnerable, but it is worth paying that price for having been freed from your prison, is it not?”

“Yes, and I’m here to get him out of his.”

“The not so metaphorical one.” She gave his face a gentle stroke, before releasing him and walking over to the drinks cabinet. “I have been investigating since you sent me the information. There is little to go on, but it all hints to something much deeper that I had not been aware of. Which is worrying all in itself.” She poured two whiskies and walked over to the comfortable seating.

“No hints before this?”

“No, which tells me that nothing could have gone through Bolivian channels. No wonder you have been chasing from London to Paris, to Cyprus, and now here.” She handed him his drink, “I am having an air reconnaissance plane scanning the jungle, disguised as one of the geo-researches. It seems there has been a group getting together deep inside, with more international links than should have been possible.” She leaned back and sighed, “it makes us look very stupid, but that’s the least of my worries.”

“Not to belabour the point, but it’s quite a big jungle out there.” Bond emptied the glass in one go. “Any idea who they might be and what they want?”

“We are pretty certain it’s drug related. We have found tentative links to the recent killing in Santa Cruz, which caused such uproar. I think the reason why they have stayed under the radar until now is because their operations have not started yet. Let’s be realistic, in the light of global terrorism the war on drugs takes second place,” she sighed, “but not here in South America.”

“One might argue they’re quite inextricably linked with each other, here.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “with the drug money financing the terrorism.”

Bond thought a moment. “State based or independent?”

“Too soon to tell, and I don’t know what is worse: independents with that sort of resources, or the bother having to involve the Foreign Ministry.”

Bond nodded. “That’s the reason why MI6 _allowed_ me to talk to you.” The emphasis on ‘allowed’ showed what he thought of the whole thing. “Relations between countries are too fragile to endorse an official involvement.”

She huffed a small laugh. “I imagine they are.” She exhaled. “The helicopter crew is due to report back in an hour, I don’t suppose I can convince you to try and have a nap before then?”

“Only if you knock me out.” Bond held up his glass for a refill.

Camille filled up his glass, but she didn’t return to her previous seat. She sat down beside him instead, on his right, mindful of keeping his left arm free.

Bond sipped his whisky in silence, until she laid a hand on his thigh.

“James,” she said softly, “you don’t have to pretend for me.”

Bond sagged. “He’s everything to me,” he said simply.

“I know,” she smiled, carefully threading her arm around his shoulders. “We might not have met face to face for a while, but I known that it is he who has broken you out of the prison the others had put you in.”

He put the empty glass down and placed his left hand over her right. “I don’t know what to do.” Finally, it came out.

“You are already doing everything possible.” She turned her hand beneath his, and gripped it tightly. “He knows you, and that means he knows that you will find him. He has to hold out until then, and from everything you have told me over the years, he is at least as tough as you are.”

“But how long can he hold out? How long can anyone?”

“How long did you?”

He turned his whole upper body to look her in the eye. “That’s different, she only wanted pain out of me. We are certain they want him to do something for them.”

“Which means that his chances for survival are even greater.”

For a few seconds Bond didn’t say anything. “That’s what I have to believe,” he answered at last, turning away and slumping again.

“Yes,” she agreed very softly, then nudged his shoulder for him to come closer, before embracing him wordlessly.

At last the floodgates broke, and everything Bond had been holding in for the last four days came rushing out. He clung to her like a lifeline, closer than he’d held onto Tom when he’d been hauled back from the real cliff.

She held him in silence, non-judgmental and understanding. Creating a safe haven for a short while, where Bond could be James, and allow himself to grieve.


	8. Chapter 8

By the time the helicopter crew returned from their reconnaissance, Bond had freshened himself up. He once again looked to all the world as he always had: stoic and controlled, and very much in charge of himself and everything around him.

Camille made the introductions, before leading the way down to her meeting room - which, of course had to be a bomb-proof bunker in what had originally been a very large wine cellar.

The group consisted of the reconnaissance team, Tom, Lucy, the head of the special military unit that was affiliated to the secret service and that reported only to the minister herself, as well as Bond and Camille, the latter chairing the meeting.

Bond, naturally, spoke fluent Spanish, and Tom’s wasn’t all that bad, while Lucy had to rely on Tom to keep her in the loop throughout, and to relay the details afterwards.

“Ma’m, we found an unauthorised building in the middle of the jungle,” the team leader began, “with the co-ordinates given to us by SIS.” He pointed to the area on the map projected onto a wall.

“The coordinates were found in Crippen’s smartphone,” Lucy hissed to Tom after his first slightly clumsy translation.

Bond glanced at them and gave a slight nod, before concentrating on the map. “Do you have an estimate of the number of bodies?” he asked in excellent Spanish.

“We saw five moving outside, with infrared we estimated a further eight inside.”

Camille frowned, her expression hard and completely business-like. “Thirteen at least, and we had no previous intel.” Addressing the team leader directly, “did you get close-up shots of the men outside? Anything suitable for identification?”

“Yes, a few, and Technical Services were improving the quality,” he pointed at one of Camille’s data specialists, who was frantically typing in the corner, and who looked up that moment. “Michel Ramos,” she said, “works out of Mexico, unknown here.”

“Ramos?” Bond pondered, addressing Tom, “check with HQ if they have anything about a Michel Ramos connected to the poisoned ecstasy tablet killings. I seem to remember that name coming up.”

“French-Spanish drug dealers in South America can’t be that common.” Tom muttered under his breath, as Bond remembered that Ramos had slipped through Tom’s fingers a year ago.

While Tom was checking through his own files, the second tech showed up from his computer. “We managed to identify a second one, Ma’m. Arseny Sokolov.”

Bond’s eyebrows went up. “Either he’s diversifying or this is getting very interesting indeed. Anyone out here in the market for heavy artillery?”

“How many do you want me to list?” The head of the secret military unit spoke up. “Syria, Egypt, Lebanon, Palestine, to name but a few in the Middle East.”

“The question is,” Camille interjected, “what would a hacker be able to do for them?”

“Plenty,” Bond realised with growing dread. “True inventories. Deployable locations. Pricing. Problems with maintenance. List goes on.”

“Access to military databases, Sir?” a second tech asked.

“Yes,” Bond’s face had turned to stone, “Q would be able to.”

“Which means that we have more than one good reason to intervene with the unauthorised settlement,” Camille decided. “Major Requena, how soon can you have your men ready?”

He pursed his lips. “Ninety minutes, Ma’am, just need to go to the depot for some fresh gear.”

“The intel? Has it been processed?” She addressed the data specialists.

“Yes, Ma’m.”

“Good,” she turned back to the reconnaissance team. “I want you to organise the drop-off via Chinook, vehicles sufficiently close, but we need to attack with the advantage of surprise.”

“We?” The major interjected.

“We,” she repeated firmly.

“Including Mr Bond?”

“Including _Commander_ Bond, yes,” Camille shot back, her hand slightly raised to keep Bond himself from interfering.

“Ma’m, I have to protest.”

“Why, Major?”

He spluttered. “His arm!” waving at Bond.

“Commander Bond is still deadlier than you or your men will ever be, even with his hands and feet tied,” she snarled. The beautiful lady had suddenly turned very dangerous indeed.

Tom froze, staring at her.

“Camille,” Bond quietly stopped her, his hand on her shoulder. When he had her attention he addressed the Major directly. “Despite Ms Montes’ protestation, I know I am not fit any longer to be part of an assault team. I won’t be in the first wave, but remain in the background to target those identified for potential information extraction. Does that placate you?”

The Major sent a pleading look to Montes, who ignored him. Defeated, he nodded to Bond. “Agreed.”

Lucy was desperate to know what had been said, but Tom continued to be on the line with HQ.

“Are you planning to leave straight away?” Bond asked, “no preparations required?”

The Major stood up straighter and puffed out his chest. “We are always prepared.”

“Excellent.” Bond soothed the man’s ruffled pride, while Camille hid a small smile behind her hair.

“Ma’m,” the major started once more, “I trust you are not planning to accompany us? You are too important to the country to take such a risk.”

She looked at him levelly. “Of course I am accompanying you. This is too important to our country for me _not_ to take the risk.”

“Ma’m, please!”

Bond stopped the major mid-rant by asking Camille: “will you stay by my side in the background? I could use some help. You know what is at stake.”

“I do.” Camille looked between the men, then nodded. “Ladies and gentlemen, are we done here? We should get ready.”

“Thank you,” Bond said. They both knew there was much more unspoken beneath the surface.

* * * * *

In a short space of time they were kitted out and ready, and followed Camille to the back of the house, where the helipad was located.

Neither Lucy nor Tom could stop staring at Bond, who looked so utterly alien in the same jungle camo uniform and military boots that everyone else was wearing. Gone the tailored suit, the bespoke shoes, replaced by a utility uniform that gave him the dangerous look of a mercenary out to kill – and all of it at odds with the right arm that was not only in its sling, but strapped to his body.

Guessing their thoughts he flashed the barest hint of a grin at them. “Have I grown an extra head?

“N...no, Sir,” Lucy spluttered, “you just look so different.”

“Even I won’t go into the jungle in a suit, Agent Beauchamp, if I can help it.”

“Uh, yes, of course, Sir.” Lucy seemed flustered.

“More ammo, Sir?” Tom said the first thing that came to his mind to change the subject. Offering Bond a few more clips from his seemingly endless supply.

Bond took the clips, which he was able to load deftly one-handed. His own gun the only weapon he could properly use.

Tom was looking up from his gear when Camille arrived, dressed in the same camouflage uniform. It somehow managed to make her look even more stunning. Tom stopped, open-mouthed, gaping.

Lucy nudged him, hard. “Don’t!” she hissed, “it’s not good for diplomatic relations to drool over Heads of Secret Services. Particularly someone else’s.”

“Uhm, right.” Tom hung his head, cursing how he flushed crimson.

“Everyone ready?” Camille addressed the assembled group, mercifully ignoring the young man’s furious blush. “We will meet the Major’s unit on base, then fly to the drop-off point together.”

There was a murmur of agreement, before they got into the waiting helicopter, and those remaining departed Camille’s house by road.

 


	9. Chapter 9

The journey by air turned out to be uneventful, and they were dropped off to where the vehicles had been transported without any problems.

Bond sat in the back of the SUV, mouth set in a grim line. Ignoring the pain to his damaged upper body caused by the extreme jostling on the jungle road, he’d closed himself off to anything else but the task ahead. He’d get the crucial information, no matter the cost, and he didn’t allow himself to think the unthinkable: what if the crucial information could not be found. “How much further?” he asked.

“Half an hour,” the unit driver responded, “that will take us as close to the camp as we dare.” The rest of the trek had to be done as stealthily as possible, especially once they came close to the coordinates of the camp.

“Anything new on the surveillance?” Camille asked into her headset, “any sign they’ve spotted us?”

“No, Ma’m,” came the prompt reply. “All movements remain the same as before, it seems the hostiles are unsuspecting.”

“See that it remains that way.” Camille’s tone brooked no opposition. “Are the backup teams in place?”“

“I have just received word that they are moving into position. ETA ten minutes after us, Ma’m.”

“Good. We will keep radio silence from now on.”

“Understood, Ma’m. Unit commander out.”

In the vehicle, Tom translated the conversation for Lucy and she nodded, grim-faced.

“I just hope he’s here,” Lucy whispered to Tom.

“Q?” Tom whispered back. After a quick glance at Bond he realised, however, that the man was somewhere else entirely, not focusing on their quiet conversation.

Lucy gave a grunt and nod of agreement. “If he’s not, we’re back at square one.”

“I don’t think that’s what Bond is expecting.” Tom had the advantage of having understood all of the previous discussions, without the need for a fairly crude translation.

“What, then?”

“Information of where he is kept.”

Lucy slumped. “More trekking,” she sighed. “Anyway, we’ve stopped. I guess it’s time to walk.”

The journey on foot was arduous, as they progressed through the humid heat as quietly as possible, taking care not to alert the camp’s inhabitants. They had no detailed information on how the camp was secured or defended, and had to expect the worst. It felt like the progress was painfully slow, and yet it was almost a surprise when the lead soldier held up a hand as they neared the top of a ridge, indicating they were close.

A couple of the unit’s men crawled through the remaining undergrowth, until their view was unhindered. Checking out the location of potential guards - two, huts - five, vehicles - three, men - at least seven. The whispered conversation that followed with the leader after their return to the group was immediately relayed to everyone else. It appeared on the surface that the surprise attack should be an easy task, with the hostiles neither expecting any action, nor being careful enough to guard themselves sufficiently. However, appearances could - and too often would - be deceiving.

“Stay here,” the Major almost implored Camille and Bond, and as an afterthought, the two younger agents.

“No,” Tom and Lucy replied almost in unison. Tom added, which came as a surprise to everyone but Bond and Beauchamp: “I have orders from HQ to ensure that Michel Ramos is apprehended.”

The Major’s lips set in a tight line, obviously wanting to argue, but not wanting to delay. “Very well then,” he said at last. He made a last appeal to Camille, who gave a curt nod in reply, which might or might not have been agreement.

A volley of smoke grenades heralded the first wave of their attack. With the main objective being to capture the hostiles alive, they had no use for heavy artillery, and instead advanced immediately out of the thick vegetation. The unit took the entire camp by surprise, including the guards, as they fell upon the hostiles under the staccato of machine gun fire. Utter chaos ensued within seconds. Smoke, gunfire, yelling and shouting, the camp was turned into a hellhole of confusion, men blinded within the impenetrable cloud of eye watering smoke.

Camille, who had been watching beside Bond, turned towards him and...Bond was gone. Vanished.

Not entirely surprised, she rechecked her weapon before heading into the thick of the chaos. “Bring in the choppers,” she ordered through her headset.

The fight was shorter than expected, the hostiles hadn’t had time to a useful defence. The smoke soon cleared to the sight of seven men kneeling on the ground in the middle of the compound, with their hands behind their heads, and weapons trained on them.

The soldiers quickly finished the search of the huts, while the two MI6 agents had captured Ramos. Bond, though, was nowhere to be seen.

“Missing one hostile,” the Major reported to Camille after a brief, and brutal, exchange with one of the prisoners. “Their leader.”

“Damn,” Camille swore. “Have you seen Bond?” Addressing the two young agents.

Lucy and Tom looked at each other, before Tom carefully replied. “We thought he was with you.”

“James,” Camille hollered, waiting for a moment, before repeating. There was no reply. With a grim expression, she turned back to the others. “Get the prisoners ready, pickup will arrive soon. I will look for Bond.”

“I’ll come with you,” Lucy decided. “We didn’t see a trace of him in there,” she waved her hand in the direction of the main fighting. “So, given where you were standing, I’d say we try over there by the main hut.”

Camille nodded, resettling the semi-automatic on her shoulder, but before they could set off, rustling sound near the path that led to the river indicated the arrival of someone or something. Several weapons were immediately trained onto the spot, from where Bond emerged. Blood was splattered across his clothes, his left was gripping a bloodied knife, but the most frightening sight of all was his face: entirely devoid of anything; eyes as flat as a corpse’s.

“James!” Camille exclaimed.

“Where have you been?” Lucy asked almost at the same time.

“I have the information,” Bond stated, his tone of voice as hard and flat as his expression.

Camille studied his face, then nodded to a soldier who had come up behind them. “Go and see if there’s anything to be salvaged back there.” She turned back to Bond. “And?”

“Somalia. I have the coordinates. I need to leave immediately.”

“I come with you,” Lucy interjected.

“No.”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily. What if you need someone for a motorbike?”

Bond didn’t answer, her attempt at a joke completely passing him by. Not that she’d expected a reaction - not with eyes like his.

“Ma’m,” came a call from the direction Bond had appeared from, “he’s still alive.” The bloodied, groaning mess the two soldiers were dragging between them, looked anything but.

Camille only nodded. “Get him in the chopper with the others.” She focused on Bond again. “It’ll be easier to get a flight out of La Paz,” she paused, “and some clean clothes.” She held her hand out after a pointed look at the bloodied knife.

Tom, still with Ramos, seemed the only one who had shock and even repulsion written across his face.

Bond wordlessly handed her knife.

Camille stepped aside, indicating that Bond should precede her to the helicopters. He acquiesced, still silent.

“What’s wrong?” Lucy asked Tom, after he’d bodily shoved Ramos into the helicopter.

“Are you seriously asking me that? Did you see the guy?”

“Bond?”

Tom nearly spluttered, “you’re kidding me, right? Bond _tortured_ the guy.”

“And?” Lucy sounded confused, “he got the intel.”

Tom stared at her. “Since when is torture sanctioned.”

“Since we had to get results, which is forever.” Lucy still sounded perplexed. “You should know that.”

Tom was silent for a moment, studying her face. So deceptively young and fresh and sweet. “Now I understand why Bond wanted you in the double-O programme and me in the guidance one.”

Lucy tilted her head. “Because this bothers you,” she realised at last.

“Yes, and it doesn’t bother you. I guess that’s why they partner double-Os with guide agents now.”

“Probably,” she wrinkled her nose, “compliance.” She glanced at the filling helicopters. “I think they’re ready for us now.”

“No,” Tom stopped her, “not compliance, but to keep a sociopath from becoming a psychopath.”

She looked at him, but where Tom might have expected indignation, he saw only thoughtfulness. “You know,” she said slowly, “you’re probably right.”

Tom gave a quick smile in agreement, then ushered her into the waiting chopper.

* * * * *

They had barely touched the ground at the military base closest to Camille’s residence, when Tom found himself in a row with HQ, and Lucy plugged herself into the nearest available computer, researching the fastest route from Bolivia to Somalia.

Camille was busy organising the prisoners’ detention, while Bond found himself a quiet corner in one of the empty washrooms, phone in hand.

Lucy stuck her head into the washroom. “I have good news and I have bad news. The good news is that we can leave straight away.”

Bond looked up from where he was about to tap Felix’s contact icon. “What’s the bad news?”

“The bad news is that it’s going to take more than thirty hours to get there.”

“Flight time or travel time?”

“Flight time.”

“Damn!”

Bond’s swearing took Lucy by surprise, and she quickly muttered: “I’ll book,” before retreating.

Bond hit the icon on his phone, listening to the ring tone while staring at the line of mirrors opposite, blind to his own frightening reflection.

“Leiter,” the voice at the other end drawled.

“Bond here. Felix, I need your help.”

“Shit, Bond, what happened?”

“Q was taken five days ago in London, no clues, no hints. I have been extracting and following information since, from Paris to Cyprus to Bolivia. I just got hold of the location where Q is held. In Somalia, Mogadishu.”

“Shit,” Leiter exhaled. “You want a hand getting him back? I got some buddies still out that way.”

“No, I don’t want any gung-ho Yanks involved,” Bond’s grimace was audible over the phone, “no offence.”

“None taken.” A pause. “What can I do?”

“I need weapons, I don’t have diplomatic immunity.”

“Any objection to getting hold of them once you get there rather than trying to sneak them through customs?”

“That’s what I was hoping for. Trying to get anything through scanners in airports is too risky these days. I don’t know the flight itinerary yet, but looks like close to forty-eight hours.”

“Shit,” Leiter repeated. “As I said, I have some buddies over there, and they can sort you out with stuff.” There was a second’s breath. “How’s your arm?”

“Useless, as it’s been for the last eight years.”

Bond looked up at a knock on the door. Lucy stuck her head back in. “Sir?”

“Hold on,” Bond said into the phone. “Yes,” to her.

“Ms Moneypenny told me that trying to book the flights through HQ inevitably means a delay.”

Bond nodded, placed the phone onto a washbasin, then pulled out his wallet. One-handed fishing for a piece of plastic, which he threw across to her. “Take my credit card.” With that he waved her off before getting hold of the phone once more.

“Can you get your personal weapon through?” Leiter was asking, “I’m not sure how I could manage something that specialised that soon.”

“Yes, it’s undetectable in check-in luggage, can be taken apart. Q designed it for me.” That hurt.

“How many coming with you?”

“Maximum of two, let me check back with you.”

“Good. Does your weapon take standard ammo? What sort?”

“Standard Walther PPK/S magazine.”

“Easy enough to get,” Leiter grunted. “Text me your ETA and I’ll get it all arranged.”

“Understood. I’ll send you the itinerary.”

“Thanks. And Bond?”

Bond had been about to hit the end call button. “Yes?”

“Take care.”

Bond didn’t answer, because anything he could have said would have been a lie, and he merely finished the call.

He didn’t bother cleaning up beyond washing his face and hand, planning to take a shower before heading to the airport, and soon rejoined the others.

Tom was looking furious. “HQ have ordered me to take Ramos back.”

“And that surprises you?” Bond seemed unaffected.

Tom slumped. “Not entirely,” he admitted, “this is a bonus for them.”

“They need a reliable agent to ensure Ramos is brought back intact. An agent with an excellent track record.”

Tom’s mouth twisted. “I’d much rather go and get Q back.”

“I am sure you do.” Bond took a step closer and placed his hand onto Tom’s shoulder. A rare gesture. “You saved my life, Agent Jacobs, that’s a big part of getting Q back. Now it’s time to return to your normal duties.”

Tom straightened up. “Yes, Sir, I guess. Lucy will just have to keep an eye on you, as much as that scares me.”

Bond gave a last squeeze to Tom’s shoulder before letting go. “You can keep her and the other double-Os from going off the sociopathic scale later.” He raised an eyebrow at the other’s startled reaction. “Don’t think I don’t know that to do the job of double-O one has to lack most of the ability to empathise. Don’t worry, even old dogs like myself, who never were partnered with someone to point out certain aspects of humanity, don’t all end up inhumane. Now go, do your less glamorous duty, Agent Jacobs.”

Tom nodded soberly, “I will, and I’ll see all _three_ of you back in London soon.”

Bond gave a nod in return, following Tom out.


	10. Chapter 10

No more than a couple of hours later, Bond and Lucy had cleaned up and were looking like the father-daughter combination they had played before. After a short but intense farewell from Camille, they were on their way to the airport. Camille had ensured their transport was ready and the airport alerted for a smooth check-in. They were soon settled in the airport lounge.

“Sir,” Lucy looked up from her netbook, which stored all encrypted data when not connected. “Would you like the flight itinerary now?”

Bond sighed, “show me the damage.”

“Our first leg to JFK in New York has a stop-over in Lima. It should take us about thirteen hours in the air. After that I’ve found the only commercial carrier to Mogadishu is Turkish airlines, which means we’ll have to fly from JFK to Istanbul, which takes ten hours, and from there to Somalia, which is another eight. In the meantime HQ is working on the Somalian government to be able to mount a rescue operation without causing another war.”

“Meanwhile who knows what’s happening to Q.” Bond’s voice was low.

There was nothing Lucy could add that wouldn’t make Bond’s thought processes worse, and thus she merely nodded, eyes back on the screen.

* * * * *

By the time they had boarded the second leg of their flight to New York, Bond was positively strumming with tension. Seven hours in, and they seemed no closer to their final destination and, in Bond’s mind, to the most important part in his life - past, present and, he hoped, future.

Lucy could do nothing but anxiously keep an eye on him, hoping the tension didn’t spill over and disrupt their journey or leave him too exhausted at the end of it, while keeping in contact with HQ.

It was in JFK airport’s first class lounge in New York, that Bond surprised her with actually opening his mouth and say a word.

“What the hell?” He stopped mid-track, staring at a man who leant against a rack of international newspapers, grinning at them.

“Ah, Bond,” the slim man straightened up, “drink?”

“What are you doing here?”

“It just so happens, I’m going on holiday. Privilege of the retired, I have a lot of time on my hands.”

“Holiday, to Somalia,” Bond’s brows rose, as they hands, “obvious holiday destination.” Turning to Lucy who had been observing quietly. “Agent Beauchamp, this is Felix Leiter, recently retired from the CIA. Felix, this is Lucy.”

“Pleased to meet you, he hasn’t scared you off?”

She was about to reply, when the name connected. “Felix Leiter, you led the team that rescued Commander Bond!”

Felix inclined his head. “At your service. I thought I’d better come and help out with Q’s rescue. Any idea who has him?” He ushered them to a quiet corner of the lounge.

“Looks like an international organisation, loosely connected. Dealing with drugs trafficking on a large scale to fund terrorism in current hotspots, they have probably recently branched out into hacking Western governments’ military installations. Or rather, they tried and failed, hence the kidnapping of Q.”

“Nasty,” Leiter remarked, dropping into a comfortable armchair. “I’ve been in touch with a few friends, they’ll have supplies waiting for us at the other end.”

“Us? Are you telling me you’re going in as well?”

“Didn’t I just tell you I was going on holiday to Somalia? What else am I going to do there?”

Bond groaned. “An old, retired CIA man and a young, not-yet-double-O agent. Perfect partners for a crippled ex-double-O.”

“Less of the old, I’m not even three years older than you.” Leiter smirked. “Age and beauty, we can’t go wrong.”

“No, we can’t,” Bond was suddenly serious again, “we can’t afford to.” Turning to Lucy, “any news from HQ?”

“Slow going with what passes for the Somali government, but they should have something by the time we land.”

“At least that’s something.” Bond closed his eyes, leaning back in the comfortable seat. The picture of relaxation to anyone who didn’t know him, but to the two people beside him the tension was all too obvious. “Tell me when it’s time to board.”

Leiter and Lucy exchanged glances. “Go get yourself a drink, lass,” Leiter told the young woman, “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Somewhat comforted, Lucy went off to the bar.

“James,” Leiter leant close to Bond once Lucy had left, “how are you holding up, really?”

Bond cracked one eye open. “Barely,” he admitted.

“Thought so. When did you last sleep?”

“Properly? Not since Paris, and that wasn’t much.”

“I figured.” Leiter pulled a glass bottle from his jacket pocket. “The next flight takes ten hours. I got some pills that knock you out enough to get some proper sleep without leaving you completely whacked. You’ll be useless if you’re overly tired, reflexes shot to shit. Do you trust me enough to take them?”

Bond held out his hand and took the bottle, looking at it carefully. “Thank you,” he said, not committing either way.

* * * * *

Lucy raised an eyebrow as she looked across the aisle to Bond, who was asleep in the window seat. Leiter sat beside him with a far too satisfied look on his face.

“How did you do that?” she asked quietly.

“Told him he’d be useless if he didn’t get some sleep.” Leiter leaned over and whispered back, “I made him pop some pills.”

“He took them? In a public place?” She looked at him as if he were the second coming. “Wow.”

“I’ve known him a long time,” Leiter looked at the sleeping Bond, “we’ve been through a lot together, and even then I took a chance.”

“You really do care for him, don’t you?” She mused, “it’s funny, Commander Bond used to be such a fabled figure and an ogre to all of us. Everyone was scared of him.”

“For good reason, he’s one scary son of a bitch.”

She couldn’t stop the laughter bubbling up. “That he is, even now. He completely shocked my fellow agent with the way he retrieved the information of Q’s whereabouts. I honestly don’t know what Tom expected.”

Leiter tilted his head. “Not Bond as he is, that’s for sure. Nobody really does. That’s one of the reasons he lasted so long in the game.” He straightened up. “Why are you following him? There’s got to be easier ways to get your kills on the score board than an unofficial mission.”

She shrugged, as if it meant nothing. “I like him.”

Leiter looked at her sceptically. “Not in the usual way lasses do. Why risk your life and your career for him and Q?”

She sighed, “Okay, don’t tell him that, but I feel that I owe him. He was the only one who was adamant I should join the double-O programme. He was the only one who saw potential and not just the petite blond girl from a posh background.” She paused, “and he was the only one who must have realised that I’m really not as nice as I pretend to be and didn’t make an issue out of it. Besides, he’s exciting.”

Leiter snorted. “That he is, lass, that he is.” He paused. “I only hope those bastards don’t get wind of what happened in Bolivia and move Q before we get there.”

“They shouldn’t, unless any of the people involved are corrupt, but they seemed to be held in high esteem by the minister herself.” Lucy seemed to debate with herself, before asking, “are they really true? I mean, the stories about Commander Bond’s conquests. He told us before we arrived in Laz Paz that Camille Montes was an old friend and the only one he never slept with. She really is stunning, though, my fellow agent certainly thought so.”

“She’d be a rare one then,” Felix nodded sagely. “He always was one for the ladies, and I was as surprised as anyone to find he’d taken up with your Quartermaster.”

“I think Commander Bond surprised himself.” She stifled a giggle, “but it does make for lots of rumours across all of HQ, keeping everyone entertained. If he ever finds out, though...oh dear.”

“I should think that after this, you could spread whatever rumours you liked and he wouldn’t care,” Leiter said softly.

“I never would, though.” She smiled a little. “This might make you laugh, but I like pretending to be his daughter, because, well, I’d like him as my dad.”

“I think,” and this time Leiter did laugh, showing his teeth, “that he deserves a daughter like you.”

“Thanks, I take that as the best compliment ever.”

Bond stirred that very moment, making a small sound, and both Leiter and Lucy fell silent, careful not to wake him.

It was still a long flight, across the Atlantic and then across Europe, and Lucy settled in to do some work, while Leiter rang the stewardess for a snack.

* * * * *

Despite Leiter’s reassurance, Bond felt completely out of it when they landed in Istanbul, and was incredibly grumpy as a result. Still half asleep, he was being dragged around the transit area, until they all settled in the admiral’s lounge, waiting for the final leg of the journey.

“You lied to me,” Bond glared at his friend, the effect diminished by his inability to remain awake.

“I just didn’t tell you after which flight you’d be refreshed.”

Bond grumbled, but accepted the glass of water Lucy wordlessly handed him. “Anything new from HQ?”

“No,” she lied, and Bond was too out of it to detect her skills as what they were. “Still the same.”

“Wish they’d hurry up,” Bond’s eyes closed once more and he drifted off to a light slumber.

Lucy left to get a coffee from the server, almost spilling some as she turned around and Leiter stood in front of her, unexpected.

“Bond’s too much out of it and that’s the only reason why you got away with it. But not with me, tell me the truth. What’s the real news?”

“It’s all fucked,” Lucy said softly after a careful glance at Bond, “they can’t get anyone to discuss anything, and they can’t get any sort of agreement to send in help without revealing why, or giving away that we’re on our way.”

“Ah, shit, but not unexpected. If we lose the element of surprise that would be it. They’d move Q or, worse, kill him.” Leiter added, even quieter, “if they haven’t already. It’s been how long?”

Lucy counted on her fingers. “Nearly a week.”

Leiter closed his eyes for a brief moment. He didn’t say anything when he opened them again, merely nodded, and went get a coffee himself.


	11. Chapter 11

They had just crossed the southern Egyptian border when Bond was woken by the sound of the meal service. This time, when he sat up from the flat bed in business class, he felt refreshed; just as Felix had promised.

“You’re lucky,” was the first thing he said, focusing on Leiter

“You’re functional,” Leiter coolly replied.

“If I wasn’t, you wouldn’t be lucky.” Bond stood up, stretching again, taking care to manipulated the right arm, wrist, hand and fingers.

Leiter smirked at him as the stewardess approached to ask them for their meal choices. Lucy, across the aisle, was already tucking into her mezze plate.

Bond ordered the same, he couldn’t be bothered with anything he had to cut laboriously, and a particularly strong Turkish coffee.

“So,” he said once he returned from the washroom, “what news?”

“Another two hours until we land, and then some friends of mine will meet us.” Leiter, to be contrary, had ordered the steak, done rare. “We should be all settled in before sunset.”

“Settled in where?” Bond frowned, “and what about SIS?” addressing Lucy.

“Last time I checked in, completely fucked,” she said around a mouthful of falafel, “will have an update once we land.”

“Agent Beauchamp, please be more precise.” Bond could sound like a strict schoolmaster when he wanted to, and to great effect.

She quickly swallowed the food and sat up straighter. “We may be on our own, because they can’t find anyone to talk to, much less arrange backup, without risking alerting them to our presence.”

“I wish I believed you weren’t serious.” Bond scrubbed his hand over the blond stubble on his face. “What about retrieval. The threat of alerting them would be eliminated by then.”

“They were still working it out when we were in Istanbul. We’ll have an update when we land. Luckily there are Navy vessels just off the coast.”

“I am certain we will need medevac.” Bond’s mouth set into a grim line, silenced by the arrival of his meal and coffee.

Lucy nodded sombrely and chewed thoughtfully on a piece of bread. “Agreed.” She paused for a second. “Back in Istanbul, Q branch had not detected any of his usual activity markers either.”

“No, they wouldn’t.” Bond paused to sip his sweet strong coffee. “Q won’t break, and they wouldn’t let anyone like Q onto a server unless they knew exactly where he was going and what he was accessing.”

Leiter fell upon his steak and ate with evident enjoyment. “You’re a right pair, Q and you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Both of you. People think they can use you for their ends, without realising you’d each out-stubborn a mule. Idiots just don’t know that unless you’re on their side for your ends, well, they’d be better off trying to get rid of you. Not that that works.”

“I hope you’re right, Felix. One thing I’m sure of, Q is tougher than I have ever been.”

“If what I saw when you were in trouble last time was any indicator, then yes, he is.”

“He is a genius.” Bond returned his attention to the food, adding after a while, “and he knows they’ll kill him if he does what they demand.”

“We have to get him before it gets to that point.”

“Guess why I’ve been in a hurry.” Bond’s remark would have sounded glib to anyone who didn’t know him as well as Leiter did, who gave a nod in return, silently showing he understood.

* * * * *

The rest of the flight passed unremarkably, and once they’d cleared customs and retrieved their luggage - with Bond’s special gun going through baggage claims undetected, Lucy headed for the ladies to change into different kit.

She emerged, not shrouded in black as Bond had half-expected, but in remarkably pressed blue shirt, chinos, and a printed headscarf - the very image of the aid worker newly arrived and about to have all idealism drained out of her.

“Good choice,” Bond nodded his approval.

Leiter returned, having been on the phone. “We’re going to be met outside of the city, about twenty minutes drive.”

“Time to organise a car,” Bond decided, glancing at Lucy, “and clothes. We should go for the cargos, boots and shirt uniform to match Agent Beauchamp.”

Leiter agreed. “Shouldn’t be hard. Either of you been here before?”

“No, not yet.” Lucy shook her head.

Bond only admitted it had been some time since he’d been to East Africa, but nothing else. His closed-off expression stopped either of them to ask any further questions.

* * * * *

After a quick shop for kit in the airport, and changing into it, they got a suitably vintage SUV. They  headed towards the meeting point, which turned out to be shabby petrol station, with an even worse looking cafe attached. Leiter pulled up, only to be met by what appeared to be the attendant. With the invitation to refresh in the cafe, they went into the ramshackle building, which housed a couple of tables, a few chairs, and two men who didn’t look anything like a cook, nor a waiter, not even a civilian.

“Felix!” the older one exclaimed in a pronounced Southern drawl, pulling Leiter into a bear hug.

“Billy,” Leiter returned the greeting, “Bruce,” he shook hands with the other man. “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes.” Without waiting for an answer, he waved Bond and Lucy over. “Allow me to introduce my friends. This is James and this is Lucy, pretty obvious who is who. They’re here to retrieve some lost property.”

“Got it!” The man who’d been identified as Billy seemed unable to talk without ending in exclamation marks. “Lucy!” he shook her hand enthusiastically. “James!” After a moment of holding out the right and getting confused before correcting himself, he shook Bond’s left with his left. “We got some trinkets for y’all!”

Lucy shot an alarmed glance at Bond but followed the men to a back room, which was stacked full with crates and boxes of supplies such as drinks, sugar, coffee, milk powder, tea bags. Underneath it all was trap door that led to crates of a very different kind, and to some electronic equipment that would have made a Delta operator proud.

“Nice setup,” Bond commented. “What have you got?”

“What do you want!” Billy grinned broadly, managing to give even a question an exclamation. “Semis? Machines? Knives?”

Bond indicated his arm. “I’m rather limited. I’ve got my personal weapon, but could do with ammo. Standard PPK/S magazines - and a knife. Lucy?” he turned to the younger agent, who was gaping at the arsenal.

“One of each,” she gasped in delight.

Billy looked her up and down. “That’s my gal!” he beamed.

“Hands off,” Leiter growled, semi-serious.

“I’m sure she’d have my balls for breakfast!” Billy kept all his teeth on display. “Anything in particular?”

“Hand gun, semi, knife, couple of grenades.” She smiled sweetly, the way she fooled civilians. “And smoke grenades.”

“You sure she isn’t related to you, James?” Felix asked.

“Too sensible,” was Bond’s level reply.

Billy guffawed, as loud and larger than life as any of his exclamations. “Let’s set you up with the goods, lady.”

True to his word all three were swiftly kitted out. Not only with weapons, but also with communications devices and some essential provisions.

“All set?” Billy asked as they finalised their gear.

“All set,” Bond agreed after a quick visual rapport with the other two. “Check with HQ regarding progress while we’re here,” he addressed Lucy, “we’ll be mapping the route and the best access points.”

“Will do,” she nodded briskly, and turned to her phone.

“You’ve been here for a while,” Bond addressed the two Americans, “what’s the best ruse to get close? It hasn’t exactly been quiet around here lately.”

They exchanged glances. “Until the organisations decided to pull out, I’d have said pretend to be from one of the do-gooder aid agencies,” Billy declared, “but as I say, they’re all pulling out now!”

“All of them? Even the ICRC and the MSF?”

“Ah-hah,” came the reply. “ICRC left a bit back, and MSF pulling the last lot out now, after a spate of attacks on their doctors. But there’s always a few stragglers, and we could say you’re doing one last job!”

“What do you think, Felix? Fancy being a doctor? I have to go for an admin type with my arm.”

Felix hummed. “Can’t say I’ve tried that one for a while, but what the hell, I’m game.”

“Sorted. Can you organise tabards et cetera for us? Lucy will make an excellent young, enthusiastic doctor.”

Lucy turned around from where she’d been on the line with HQ, and simply grinned.

* * * * *

Unable to get a properly marked-up vehicle, the three were forced to abandon their transport a couple of streets away, making their way on foot towards the derelict complex of buildings. It clearly stemmed from before the civil war and had been condemned for destruction.

They were watched suspiciously as they approached purposefully and walking briskly, as though wanting to get a job over and done with quickly. Neither of them expected any of the people who overtly observed them to be the actual kidnappers, but they were perfectly aware that the likelihood of any of their movements being reported was very high.

“Look,” Lucy pointed, looking like a naive young doctor, “that’s quite a collection of data cables coming out of that basement.”

“Agreed.” Leiter was rummaging in his medical bag while scanning the indicated spot.

“I bet that’s the place,” Bond said quietly, while pretending to focus on the ledger. “Nightfall should be in two hours.”

“I’ll see what we can find about the plans for the complex,” Felix said under his breath. “I’m guessing not much.”

“If anyone knows about it it’s the Americans,” Bond replied just as quietly, before snapping the ledger shut.

“Dr Bailey,” he said louder, addressing Lucy, “I am sure your surgical skills are second to none, but your navigational ones are useless. We are entirely in the wrong place.”

“I’m certain it’s just around the corner,” Lucy’s voice contained the right amount of defensiveness and panic, “but if it makes you feel better, we should go another way.”

“I would very much appreciate it. Next time you should leave the route planning to me, it’s part of my role, after all.” Bond played the part of the annoyed older employee to perfection. “Dr Little, your thoughts?” Addressing Leiter, whose eyes widened at the name he’d just been given.

“I think we’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere,” Leiter played the conciliator. “Let’s retrace our steps.”

“Very well,” Bond growled.

Lucy put on a sulk that was visible from every angle, as they turned and retreated for now, arguing for a while, to keep up the pretence.


	12. Chapter 12

They spent the next two hours with Leiter’s buddies, planning while checking old US aerial connaissance maps. They eventually were fairly certain where the data cables lead to, and wherever those ended up, Q would be. By the time darkness had fallen, Bond had studied the maps and blueprints that thoroughly, he felt confident he was going to find his way through the maze of dilapidated, low-ceilinged buildings that had been haphazardly stuck together like a 3D jigsaw.

He emerged from the cafe to find Lucy outside with night vision goggles in hand.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Coming with you, obviously.”

“No.”

“Yes,” a different voice emerged from the bunker, Leiter. “So am I.”

“No,” Bond insisted. “Q is mine, and I’m getting him.”

“If you really think like that, and if you’re really planning on acting like that, then you are not just as stubborn as a mule, and reckless as a teenage delinquent, but also a brainless idiot.” Leiter planted himself in front of Bond, fearless in the face of the man’s anger. “I hadn’t pegged you as an idiot, but there’s always a first.”

Bond glared helplessly. “I can’t let you...either of you...do this.”

“Why not?” Lucy shot back. “Q is also _my_ Quartermaster, which means he is mine, too. And Mallory’s, and Tanner’s, and Moneypenny’s, and Tom’s, and everyone else’s. The fact that they can’t be here doesn’t mean they aren’t frantically working on an extraction. I have their word that at least medevac will be here in time, and we’ll only need to give our coordinates.”

“You heard her,” Leiter agreed, “and you are my friend. James, that means your partner is my friend, too, and therefore mine as well. Simple, really. You’re the only one who shags him, but that doesn’t make him more yours than anyone else’s, unless you _are_ that brainless idiot after all, and I really can’t imagine that.”

“You’re both mad.”

“No, Sir, with all due respect, but if you are trying to extract Q on your own, then it is _you_ who is mad.” Lucy’s boldness was rewarded with a particularly vicious glare. It made her swallow uncomfortably, but she continued to stand her ground.

“You know that she is right,” Leiter agreed. “Chances are not only you will die trying to get him out on your own, but Q will end up dead, too. Together we’ll have more options.”

Bond glared once more, but it was clear that this was one fight he was going to lose. With a resigned shrug, he held out his hand for the night vision goggles. “Thank you,” he said softly.

“You’re welcome, Sir.” Lucy smiled with relief at not being subjected to the glare any longer.

Leiter merely slapped Bond on the back, before all of them headed back to the building complex, careful to leave the vehicle even further away to avoid any suspicious sounds.

A few men were still milling outside the complex, smoking cigarettes while chatting, seemingly confident there were no possible threats.

“Too many,” Bond murmured, “probably too early.”

Leiter made a noise of agreement. “Too risky to create a diversion, so we wait?”

Bond agreed. “They can’t all belong to the group that has Q, it wouldn’t make sense. The question is, what are they doing here?”

“If this is their HQ,” Lucy put in, “they might be the support crew, the wannabees, the hangers-on.”

Bond studied her for a moment, his pale eyes just about visible in the depth of the shadows. “That means we have to get into the complex while avoiding them, and reach the basement area where we saw the data cables. There must be another entrance, I reckon it’s across the roofs.”

“There’s got to be a back way too,” Lucy mused, “deliveries and such.”

“In a ramshackle place like this?” Bond was dubious, “but it’s worth investigating. Are you up for it, Agent Beauchamp?”

“Place like this made up of several buildings? Always odd doors and such.” She sounded confident at least.

“We shouldn’t use the radios,” Bond decided, “the interference could be noticed by the computing equipment.”

Leiter hummed in agreement. “We’ll give you fifteen minutes, if you haven’t returned by then, we’ll be looking for an entrance ourselves. Okay, James?”

Bond nodded. “Agreed.”

Lucy had barely been gone for five minutes, before a faint sound indicated movement, followed almost immediately by Lucy all but flying at a shape in the darkness, knocking someone to the ground.

A few moments of struggle, a tell-tall crack, and it was over.

“She’s quick,” Leiter murmured.

“She’s good,” Bond replied, “I’ve always known that.”

If he sounded like a somewhat sick parody of a proud father, Felix didn’t comment on that.

Lucy returned, looking as composed as before. “He’s about your height and build,” she said, looking between Bond and towards the darkness. “You think it’s worth seeing if his clothes fit? They’re not too dirty.”

“I wouldn’t give a damn if the clothes were dirty if that helped me get inside without alerting them. What ethnicity was the man?”

“It’s after nightfall,” she said reasonably, “and he looks North African, so if you keep your mouth shut and your head down, you might do.”

“Language, Agent Beauchamp, I think your second kill is getting to your head.” Bond smirked, suddenly remembering his own second kill - but that had been on orders and on an official mission. “Take me to it.”

Within a short time the three of them had stripped the corpse and rolled the body into a slightly less conspicuous place.

Bond was lucky, the man had worn headgear, an excellent way to hide his own blond hair, and the uniform-style jacket had pockets.

“Here,” Bond decided after checking the corpse over, “take the sling, it’s too conspicuous. I’ll put the right hand into a pocket instead.”

Lucy nodded grimly and took the sling, while Bond, with Leiter’s help, took his own jacket off, and slipped on the other man’s.

“Fifteen minutes,” Leiter reminded his friend.

“The same rules don’t apply to me,” Bond growled.

“Tough,” Lucy shook her head firmly. “You have fifteen minutes and then we’re coming after you. Also, I’m calling in the Marines.”

“Which Marines,” Bond scowled while pulling the hat low over his face.

“Ours,” both Lucy and Leiter said together.

“How are you going to get hold of them?”

Lucy gave him a look as though he was dim. “Through the radio feed,” she said slowly, “there’s warships just off the coast and they can get apaches here in ten minutes to extract.”

“SIS?” Bond still wasn’t impressed, “have they got their finger out yet?”

“They will,” Lucy said firmly.

Bond stopped in the middle of pushing his useless right hand into the jacket pocket, to secure it there. “Is that belief or knowledge?”

Her smile was predatory. “It’s certainty.”

Bond merely gave a curt nod. “Fifteen minutes.” With that he turned and vanished quietly into the darkness.

 


	13. Chapter 13

They’d been methodical, Q could give them that. They’d started with his toenails, and no matter what he had heard first-hand or read second-hand about the procedure, he hadn’t realised how much it actually hurt. A lot. A big fat fucking horrible lot. Enough that he hadn’t been too proud to wail like a banshee. Besides, he wasn’t going to talk, let alone do what they wanted him to, thus he felt perfectly within his right to yell and scream and cry in pain as much as he wanted to.

They’d been clear enough in what they’d wanted him to do, and Q was equally adamant that he wouldn’t - after all, once he’d got back into the SIS systems, any reasonably talented hacker could do an untold amount of damage before being detected, and there’d be no further use for him.

He’d found a surprising sense of calm and determination once the parameters of his predicament had become clear to him: they were going to torture him until he did what they wanted him to; once he had done what they wanted him to he would be superfluous and he’d be killed. It was simple, really, despite their continuing assurances that he’d been freed once he’d done what they demanded. He was no fool, he’d always been a genius, and since living with Bond, he’d added confirmation and second-hand experience to his inherent cynicism. The result had been clear: he had to hold out as long as possible, so that James could find him and rescue him.

It would be James, he knew it in every cell of his - admittedly by now pitiful - being. If anyone was able to trace him, despite his kidnappers’ confidence that he’d be untraceable, it was James Bond. James would find him, no matter what, he only had to hold on and survive for long enough.

They’d worked their way up from the toenails, breaking the delicate bones in his feet, and then his ankles, with set faces and significant pauses in between. Each day another area, careful enough not to fracture too much or too badly to prevent his body from going into shock. It didn’t prevent him from sobbing, though, and he found no shame in that either. It hurt like hell: agony when they worked on him, and how he despised that euphemism, and pain-pain-pain afterwards. Never ceasing, only mildly abating whenever he managed to fall into a half-hearted slumber from exhaustion. No painkillers, just threat of more pain and more damage until he did what they demanded.

Which he had no intention to do. Ever.

He would think of James, who had survived so much worse. It didn’t make his own reality any better; didn’t help with the all-encompassing pain and the tears and screams, but it helped with his determination. Every time he thought of James, knowing, just _knowing_ with absolute certainty that he would find him, he felt a boost of strength. He’d hold out until James got him out. There was nothing else he could do, because he wasn’t going to let James down. James, who had held out during so much more, and even with his last thought, before dying - that time for real - had believed in him, Q, to find him.

But he’d lie to himself if he wasn’t begging for James to find him _bloody buggering bastardy_ soon already.

* * * * *

Bond’s internal clock was ticking. Fifteen minutes, like a time bomb counting him down to annihilation. Not his, he’d never cared about his own, now less than ever before, but Q’s. If the cavalry came in before he’d found his quartermaster and eliminated his captors, the chance of getting him out alive would be close to nil.

The first kill was easy, despite his one-handedness, thanks to the complete unpreparedness of the man who had been loitering at the entrance. Bond couldn’t risk being unmasked as an intruder, and killing was the only option. Not that he felt anything; his years as a double-O had made him numb against the taking of lives. A lack of humanity he didn’t dwell on, because he’d gained a far greater part of human existence, by loving Q and being loved in return.

Bond made it quickly further into the maze. Dodging a couple of guards by pulling into the shadows just in time. He would have prayed for them to walk past, had he ever believed in anything beyond the plain of factual existence, but as it was, they did not recognise him, just said a couple of words to the figure in the corner, before moving on.

Any further encounter increased the risk of exposure, and so did any kill in anything but silence. Four minutes in, and Bond found himself in a passageway lit by a string of single light bulbs, that went along a thick cord of data cabling.

* * * * *

The thirst was one of the worst constant physical companions, right after the excruciating pain that only reduced to an all-encompassing throbbing when he was able to remain absolutely still. But the thirst, Q thought as he felt around on the ground for the plastic cup that might or might not have been left with him in the darkness, that damned thirst had settled into his very core.

Dehydration, he had figured in the first days; severe dehydration, he’d realised in the last ones. His tongue was a thick obstruction in his dry mouth, and yet it didn’t stop him from moaning with the constant pain as he was left alone in the unlit cell, or screaming in agony when they worked on him.

He wasn’t going to break, though. Nothing and no one in the world would make him do what they asked for. Not because of SIS, not even because of Queen and Country, but because of a far more personal and thus far more powerful reason: if he did what they wanted they would kill him. If they killed him he would leave James. If he left James he would be broken. If James would break for the last and final time, then all this _goddamned_ love would have been in vain.

He wasn’t going to let that happen; he wasn’t going to leave James alone.

Neither did he have any intention to die.

Besides, James would find him.

* * * * *

His luck couldn’t hold out forever. He’d known that, and yet Bond would have given more than he had to give, to stay undetected a little longer. The first man who realised he was an intruder, and not one of their allies, stood in a doorway, and he was not alone.

The guard’s gun had been raised and pointed at Bond before he could dispatch the man silently, forcing him to shoot instead. The moment the bullet left his weapon, all chances to remain undetected were null and void. Cries of alarm were swiftly followed by rapid gunfire, and all he could do was throw himself sideways against a half-crumbled wall, and into another room.

Bond felt an impact on his right, but hardly any pain, and he figured the fall had been worse than expected. He was functional, and off the ground within a heartbeat, running what he thought was parallel to his original path. Further down: closer.

Closer to Q, and that determination and hope let him ignore the stabbing pain in his ribs, as he dodged through low doorways and over scattered debris.

 


	14. Chapter 14

Q had been dozing in a pain fog, and he’d almost missed the sounds of gunfire and panicked shouting. Jerking awake, he cried out at the sudden onslaught of pain, but ignoring it best he could, he started to drag himself closer towards the door. They hadn’t bothered tethering him, because how would he escape, by walking on his hands?

Desperate for any clue as to what was going on, he eventually reached the door and leaned against it, listening to the shouting outside. He hoped with every fibre of his being that he was not mistaken and the sounds of shots being fired in rapid succession were from Bond’s customised PPK.

Suddenly frantic jerking at the door handle on the other side, and a voice shouting.

“Q?”

The voice, _that_ voice calling out.

James? He thought he’d said the name out aloud, but not a sound had passed his cracked lips.

The handle was repeatedly rattled again.

“Get away from the door!” The oh-so hoped for voice shouted.

Hallucinating or not, Q took the order as his cue to scramble away from the door as fast as he could, curling up in a protective position.

A shot, deafeningly loud this time, and the door was being kicked in.

 “Q!”

“James?” Q’s hoarse voice pitiful to his own ears.

“Damn, Q!” The room was unexpectedly bathed in a dull glow, as a single lightbulb came to life. “What the hell have they done to you.” Bond knelt down beside Q, left hand desperately checking him over, right arm trailing uselessly on the floor.

“Broken feet,” Q croaked, “can’t walk.”

“Doesn’t look like bones only.” Bond had taken in the bare feet immediately, their bloodied mangled state. “I’ll get you out. Can you hold on if I carry you?”

Q set his jaw and nodded.

“We have to hurry, we have exactly three minutes to get out before the cavalry arrives, and two more before this place is going to blow up.” Bond bared his teeth in a mockery of a grin. “Can’t have you getting rescued by me without proper fireworks, can we?” He bent down, grunting at the vicious stabbing pain in his right side, as he manoeuvred his left arm beneath Q to lift him across his back.

Q tried not to cry out as he was heaved upside down, but failed miserably. Doubled over across his good shoulder, he clung to Bond’s back. “Where am I, anyway?”

“Somalia,” Bond grunted, “Mogadishu.”

“How the hell did you find me?”

“Can we leave the...” Bond groaned, fighting a sudden onslaught of dizziness, “details to later?” He forced himself to speed up, finding his way back through the maze.

Q shut up and kept his eyes closed, gritting his teeth against the pain, praying that they would not come up against any resistance on their way out. He clung to Bond’s hip, one arm holding onto his middle.

They crashed through another exit, partially obscured by remains of a door, when Bond stumbled.

“James?” Q held on tighter, doing his damn best not to cry out in pain this time. Unlike with his kidnappers, he had good reason to keep quiet. James was struggling, and he didn’t know why.

“It’s alright,” Bond forced out, stumbling on. The dizziness had become worse, and his damned knees were trying to buckle with every step. They’d nearly reached the exit, though.

Q wanted to believe him, more than anything, but when he changed his hold on Bond’s back, his hands and arms came away wet. It was too dark to see clearly, but the stickiness and warmth told him everything he had to know. “Damn it, James, you’ve been shot!”

“Only a flesh wound,” Bond gasped.

Q wanted to shout at him, call him a liar, but what bloody good would that do. “Okay.” It wasn’t, but they were so close to everything he’d hoped for throughout the horror of his capture.

James kept struggling onwards, kicking down a rickety door and shouldering through the remains with his right. They were outside in the night air all of a sudden, the sound of voices muffled now, coming from inside the buildings.

The next moment James went down, losing his footing as he stumbled to the ground. His strength had failed under a wave of nausea and disorientation. He fell to his knees without letting go of Q, managing to use his own body to cushion the fall. It didn’t stop Q from crying out in pain this time, as they hit the ground.

“I’m so sorry,” Bond slurred, “I can’t...”

He didn’t get to finish the sentence as he collapsed, half crushing Q, who howled and nearly lost consciousness himself.

Q thought he should shout at Bond, get him to stand up again, and move just a little bit further, away from the explosion he was expecting, and the men who were trying to stop them. Or even rage at him, rouse him through anger that he had failed so close to the goal, but all he could really feel was thankfulness.

James was with him. Nothing else mattered.

“It’s okay,” Q pleaded, “you’re here, you found me. That’s all that counts.” He closed his eyes, clinging to his partner’s unconscious body. If he was going to die now, it wouldn’t be on his own. James had found him.

* * * * *

Moments or hours later, Q felt himself being lifted off Bond, and half carried, half dragged further out. He felt, rather than heard, the whirl of a waiting helicopter.

“Thank god!” A heartfelt female voice came from just above his head as the draft from the helicopter came closer.

“Damned time!” A strained male voice added.

Q wanted to open his eyes, he really did, but in the end he just clung to whoever was holding him up, wanting to believe it was James, before he passed out.

He missed all the action, including the explosion that was as mighty as Bond had promised.


	15. Chapter 15

The sterile smell and the faint beeping were all too familiar, as were the stiffly starched and ironed sheets. Bond groaned, more with annoyance than due to feeling like shit. He’d been caught out again, _at his age_ , and was back to the déjà-vu of waking up and aching all over, weak as a kitten, with a parched throat and generally feeling like hell warmed up.

“Well, there you are,” Leiter’s far too cheerful voice came from nearby. “I can tell you are getting old, Q’s been about for ages.”

“Q?” Bond blinked a few times, telling his eyes firmly to cooperate and stay open. “How is he?” Bond tried to sit up, but to his disgust, his body wouldn’t obey.

“You’ll hear him soon, I bet.” Leiter’s face swam into view, holding out a cup with straw. “He told me you said it was only a flesh wound.”

“No broken bones, of course it was,” Bond said, accepting the drink.

“Bull. _Shit_.” Leiter pronounced the syllables with gusto. “You were shot four times, in your right arm, shoulder, and side. You probably only felt the one in your side, while the rest was happily bleeding you out.”

“One good thing about the blasted arm, then.”

“Sure, it was a good thing you were bleeding out without noticing it.” Leiter barked a sharp laugh.

Bond grimaced. “Is there any food around? I’m starved, and help me sit up.”

Leiter helped his old friend to move up into a seated position, with a couple of extra pillows behind his back. “I’ll ring for a nurse to get you some...” He was cut off by a commotion outside the room. A very annoyed voice, belonging to none other than Q, regaled someone about the woeful lack of secure wifi.

“It’s a disgrace, that’s what it is!” Q was fuming as he was pushed into the room by Lucy, a drip attached to himself and the wheelchair. “You idiot,” he said to Bond without taking a breath, “you nearly bled to death!”

“Hello to you, too,” Bond countered calmly. “I see you are feeling well. Having fun with the medication?”

“Yes, well, much better thanks,” Q grumbled. “You’ve been asleep for days. Days! And I’ve had nothing to do.”

“Thirteen hours, actually,” Lucy happily corrected. “Something about middle age and compromised body with pre-existing conditions.”

Bond glared at her, which she cheerfully ignored.

“How would _you_ know?” Q did sulking very well, “it felt like days.”

Bond opened his mouth to comment on opiates and irritability in quartermasters, but Leiter interjected.

“Lucy, what about we leave these two lovebirds to bicker alone while we go look for something to eat for the newly awoken one?”

Lucy nodded, eager to leave the room. She had the grace to position Q next to Bond’s bed, and secure the wheelchair, before vanishing with Leiter out the door.

“So,” Bond asked once they were alone, “where are we?”

“Big fat ship in the Gulf.”

Bond sighed. “Can you be a little more precise?”

“No, I didn’t pay much attention beyond trying to secure a decent wifi signal.” Q hesitated, “well, and being worried about you, you great big idiot.”

“Big fat ship and great big idiot in nearly the same breath. You are regressing to your not too long-gone teenage years.” Bond couldn’t help but smile, and as he did, the true extent of his relief came suddenly crashing down on him. It made the smile grow until it lit up his lined face, brightening his ice blue eyes. “I don’t care what you call me, as long as I have you back.”

Q tried to lean close. “Thank you,” he said simply, “I don’t know how you did it, but thank you.”

“My dearest Q,” Bond murmured, reaching across to take Q’s hand, as riddled with IV lines as his own, “I would have done anything to get you out.”

“I know,” Q squeezed Bond’s fingers gently. “I didn’t just hope you’d find me, I _knew_. I only had to hold on long enough for you to get to me.

“You knew?”

“Yes,” Q nodded firmly, “I knew. I had no doubt you would find me.”

They both fell silent, holding hands, ensuring themselves they were really there.

“I wish I had found you sooner,” Bond finally broke the silence. He could only ever manage a certain amount of displayed emotion, before squirming like a fish on a hook.

Thankfully, Q always knew when to take the cue. “I bloody well did, too!” he blustered.

Both of them grinned, saying much more without words than they were right now capable of vocalising.

They were interrupted by the sound of Lucy and Leiter returning, trays in hand. “We have soup and sandwiches, or sandwiches and soup,” Lucy grandly announced.

“I guess I have the soup and sandwiches,” Bond agreed, not letting go of Q’s hand yet. A fact both Lucy and Leiter ignored politely.

Lucy moved the tray over purposefully, setting it on the table and pushing it towards Bond, Leiter doing the same for Q. “Eat,” Leiter said sternly to the younger man, who glared back, and shook his head.

Bond sighed. “Q, I am sure you are on a lot of strong painkillers. While I don’t know the full extent of your injuries yet, I do remember the way you looked, and the fact you cried out in pain whenever you were moved even slightly. How many bones are broken? How long did the surgery take? Did they put any screws and rods in to stabilise the fractures? And, most importantly, what painkillers did they put you on and on what dosage? So, please eat, even a genius like you should realise that empty stomach and strong morphine-based painkillers don’t go together. Alright?”

Q grumbled, but withdrew his hand and picked up the sandwich that Leiter was waving under his nose, earning Bond a smirk from his friend.

“Never thought you could be an influence for the good,” Leiter commented.

“First for everything.” Bond quirked an eyebrow as he accepted the spoon that Lucy handed him. “Since it looks like Q has decided to sulk, is anyone else able to enlighten me about his condition?”

“I’m here you know,” Q grumbled, “no need to speak about me in the third person.”

“No toenails, broken metatarsals, dislocated ankles ...” Leiter went up the list, “that’s as far as they got. The rest looks worse than it is.”

“Well, if that is all,” Bond started to comment, but his attempt at dryness faltered spectacularly when he glanced at Q, and it finally hit him. If anyone knew what that list meant in terms of pain suffered, then it was him. “I’m sorry it took me so long.” His voice broke, and he had to force himself to concentrate on the soup, desperate not to break down.

“You got me out,” Q said, “nobody else would have found me. I didn’t know where I was.”

Bond shook his head, but said nothing. He couldn’t trust his voice; not even his hand, which was spilling soup. It had been one thing to be at the receiving end of violence, pain, torture, but to be unable to prevent this happening to the person who meant everything? That was truly unbearable.

Leiter quietly took hold of Lucy’s arm. Without a word, he guided her out of the room, leaving the two men alone.

They sat in silence for a moment, each eating their meal.

It was Q who eventually broke the silence. “What did you have to do to find me? You promised to give me the details once we were out.”

Bond swallowed a spoonful of soup. “I had to call in a few favours.”

“What exactly did they entail?”

Bond frowned, “how exactly did they pull out your toenails and shatter your bones?”

“Slowly,” Q shot back. “I didn’t exactly pay attention to the details. Stop changing the subject. Which favours? Who? What is Lucy doing here? And Leiter for that matter?”

Bond turned his head to study Q. “You don’t want to talk about it, I understand and respect that, but you do need to tell me what I have to avoid in the future and what might set you off. If you do that, I promise I will tell you the whole story of London to Paris to Cyprus to Bolivia to Somalia.”

Q sighed, and inclined his head slightly as though to look at his wrapped toes. “Don’t mention cockroaches. Or rats,” he said at last. “Seriously, I was out of it most of the time.”

Bond nodded, he was getting the idea. They always kept the low lights on in the bedroom anyway, he just wished the lights would have never had to benefit Q.

Q looked at Bond again. “How did you manage to get all that travel done?”

“M enabled most of it through not actively forbidding it. All the work back at HQ was done ‘on spare time’, and Agents Beauchamp and Jacobs were ‘on holiday’. Talal, your second in command was invaluable, and so were Tanner and Bianca, his nursing wife. I frankly couldn’t have done it without everyone involved. As for the trail, Talal found a not very coincidental coincidence in a few articles, and I took it from there. Old friends, old enemies, plus a lot of air miles.”

“I have no doubt it was a lot more complicated and there were a lot more bodies around than that.”

Bond huffed. “You might not believe me, but I didn’t kill anyone. It seems that these days I have others to do that for me - younger ones. Who were also keen on saving my life, twice.” He sighed as if the admission was a painful one.

Q couldn’t help it, he laughed. “Only you,” he wheezed out painfully, “only you would see that as a sign of old age.”

Bond grinned, more at the fact that despite everything, Q was laughing, than the absurdity of the statement’s truth. “I promise I will tell you all the details, later.”


	16. Chapter 16

Bond and Q were disturbed by a commotion at the door: several voices, one of them belonging to Lucy, who was clearly annoyed about something.

“What now,” Bond groaned, reaching for the cup of water before settling back. He was damned tired from the blood loss and the surgery he had no memory of, and while he felt loathe to admit it, he would have welcomed some quiet. Besides, he could only imagine how wrung out Q had to be feeling behind the bravado.

Eve flung open the door, making a grand entrance. “Welcome back,” she said sardonically.

“Wait a moment,” Q pushed himself up on the armrests to sit straight. “If you’re here, who’s looking after my cat?”

Bond could only stare.

“Don’t you worry your pretty head,” Eve countered cheerily. “Mr Turing is enjoying a couple of days with none other than M.”

Q slumped down again, relieved. “At least he’ll feed him.”

“He’ll probably feed him with caviar,” Eve closed the door behind her.

“Be that as it may, what are you doing here?”

“I’m here to make sure that both of you return to London without any further disasters.”

“M having that evil cat is enough of a disaster in my books,” Bond grumbled.

Q shot Bond a look before turning back to Eve. “I’m not sure if either of us is up to any disasters, even minor ones,” he said ruefully, “and what is Agent Beauchamp so upset about?”

“She is to go back to HQ immediately, on M’s orders.”

“Is she?” Bond looked up.

“Yes,” Eve nodded, “apparently killing a former Deputy Commander British Forces Cyprus needs some additional paperwork filled in.”

Bond hummed. “Any chance this ‘holiday’ might be classed as an official mission retrospectively? After all, we did rescue a rather important person within SIS.”

Eve only smiled enigmatically. “With two kills for one of the most promising - and the only female - agent in the double-O feeder program? It’s a possibility.”

“Good. She deserves it, and she has all the qualities a double-O needs.”

“Being a sociopath, you mean?” Q quipped.

Bond looked vaguely offended. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Most people would consider it to be, yes, but let’s face it, you are far less of a sociopath these days than you like to let on.”

Bond looked momentarily alarmed, before then his eyes softened. “That’s due to you, you know.”

The moment was shattered by Eve making gagging noises. “If you declare your love for each other, I will have you shipped back in a troop transporter. Isn’t it enough that you keep offering your lives for each other?”

Both turned to look at her with a scowl, while Q bent down to his sandwich.

Eve smirked, but was merciful enough to change the subject. “A helicopter will pick us up in a couple of hours during daylight, and a flight is waiting at the airport. If I leave you alone now, will you behave for a while?”

“I don’t think he’s in any shape to misbehave,” Q retorted.

“Not that you are in any better shape, on the contrary,” she breezed out of the room.

Q huffed, then paused mid-bite, paling.

“Q?” Bond immediately fixed his gaze on Q.

Q was white around his lips. “Hurts,” he almost whimpered, sounding bewildered.

“Damn.” Bond reached for the call button, pressing it. “The painkillers are wearing off.” Matter-of-fact, but his facial expression betrayed all of his horror at being - for once - the one who was helpless.

An orderly arrived quickly. The man took one look at Q, then left the room, to return just as swiftly, carrying medical kit and being accompanied by a second nurse.

Bond kept his concerned gaze on Q, who had turned from pale to grey, knuckles white with his death grip on the armrests of his wheelchair, his breathing shallow.

“Let’s get you back into bed,” the second nurse ordered rather than suggested. “You shouldn’t have been out of it in the first place, Sir.”

“No!” Both Bond and Q gasped at once.

“No?” The orderly looked from one to the other. “Not going back to bed or not having been out in the first place?”

“Not leaving him,” Q said mulishly, face set in lines of pain and stubbornness.

“Not having been out of it,” Bond clarified, “not that you could have prevented it.”

The second nurse sighed. “I’ll get another bed.”

“Not leaving you,” Q repeated after they had left to fetch a second hospital bed.

“I don’t think they will try to make you,” Bond soothed, “and I’m certainly not going anywhere for now. I don’t know what they did to me, but surgery must have been more invasive than I thought.” He reached for Q’s hand, “promise me you’ll do what they say. There is no need to suffer through pain.”

“It didn’t hurt until just then,” Q protested.

“I believe you, you were vocal enough about the woeful lack of secure wifi.” Bond smiled.

Q didn’t look away from Bond, when the nurse and orderly returned, wheeling another bed between them.

Bond reluctantly let go of Q’s hand as the two medics carefully manoeuvred him from the wheelchair into the bed, before hooking up intravenous fluids.

Q obeyed without question and laid back on the bed, his eyes on Bond the whole time, even when he was hooked back up to the drip, and morphine shot into the peripheral cannula. The opiate quickly started to do its job.

“Q?” Bond asked quietly.

“Working...” Q said faintly, his eyes starting to lose focus.

“Good.” Bond remained quiet, watching Q until the evened out breathing was proof of him being asleep. Only then did he add in barely a murmur, “I would have died if I’d lost you.”

“You can stop that now,” Eve was leaning against the door.

“What the hell?” Bond looked up, startled and angry at having been caught out.

“Just sorting out the last details. We should be home in a few hours.”

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t eavesdrop.” Bond glared.

“You weren’t always so maudlin,” blithely ignoring his scowl.

“I’m not maudlin, just realistic.”

She gave him a sombre look. “Which is why we knew you’d get him back.”

“What if not,” he challenged her, “what if I had been too old and too damaged?”

“You weren’t,” she said simply, entering the room and sitting down on the lone visitor’s chair. “Also, there won’t be a next time.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“You.”

Bond huffed drily. “Hardly. I didn’t prevent it from happening this time, and even I realise that if I accompanied Q everywhere like a guard dog, he’d throw me out quicker than you could shoot my guts.”

She almost laughed at that. “I’m serious. He might finally listen to us about security precautions, because of you.”

“Because he doesn’t want me as the guard dog snapping at his ankle, or because he’s worried I’d injure my frail, aging self while trying to rescue him?”

“Because he doesn’t want to see you pay that sort of price again.”

“I didn’t pay a price,” Bond shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“No? What about whatever you did in Paris to get the first data, not to mention what you’ve been through since?”

“Just in case your mind was going strange places you don’t want it to go, I can assure you I did nothing at any stage that I had not done before, and with far less at stake. Besides, Le Signe had no interest in fucking me.” Not the type of language Bond usually used. “Taking my clothes off can hardly be classed as payment, it’s not a particular bother.”

Her eyebrows went up almost to her hairline. “And the rest of the damage?” Her wave took in the assorted wounds, contusions, and sprains.

“Far less than ever before. I’ve paid a lot more on missions with far less at stake for me. I could hardly feel the bullets and can barely the effects of the surgery. I met an old friend in Bolivia, and unmasked a traitor in Cyprus. I call those bonuses.”

“Not to mention promoted a new double-O,” Eve finished sardonically.

“So M did make her double-O,” Bond nodded, “good choice.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “as for Q, I can see him paying more attention to our nagging from now on, and stop taking the bloody Tube.”

Bond glanced at Q on the other bed. “If he ever takes the tube again without guard - and with that I don’t mean myself because I might crash them, or hang off them, but I don’t ride them - I’ll threaten to break his bones myself.”

She grinned like a hyena. “Good to know you’re feeling back to your usual self already.”

“We are in agreement, then. Q will get a security detail and there won’t be any deviation from it whatsoever. If I am not available, then someone will have to stand guard if all else fails.”

“We’ll tell him as soon as he wakes, before he can change his mind.”

“If I were you, I’d make sure he stays under until we’re at least on the plane. He really does hate flying.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Eve replied drily. “I’ll let the medics know.” She looked at him shrewdly. “And you?”

“What about me?” Bond’s feigned innocence would have been convincing to anyone but Eve.

“Do you need more drugs?”

“No. I don’t like to be out of it, and the pain’s manageable.”

“Manageable, huh,” she looked at him sceptically. “You said that when your arm was literally falling off.”

“Do I look like I’m struggling?” Bond cast his patented glare at her.

“You look like you’re in a hospital bed and full of assorted holes, that’s what you look like.”

“I hate you.”

Her grin returned. “That’s what they all say. I’ll call the medics,” and with that she breezed out.

“I hate you more than anyone else does!” he called after her, before falling back into the pillows, wincing. Even the mighty James Bond knew when he was beaten.


	17. Chapter 17

It was a strange little procession down from the helipad on the roof. Eve, leading the way, followed by Tom who had met them, and who was pushing Q in his wheelchair, and finally Bond bringing up the rear.

Q, as expected, had complained with everything he had against using a helicopter, throwing a tantrum of almighty proportions. He nearly had to be restrained and forced to take the flight, if Bond hadn’t promised him that if he went to the debriefing via chopper he’d be allowed home sooner. Only barely mollified, Q had sulked the entire way, and was now hunched low in the chair as Tom wheeled him through the lifts and corridors to M’s office.

Bond had recuperated well, as if his body remembered all those times he had been injured, and despite his age he was still recovering like a man twenty years his junior. He was already back in one of his tailored suits, thanks to Eve, the only concession being the jacket. He had draped over his shoulders, the bandaging too thick to be accommodated.

Eve knocked once on the heavy second door, barely waiting for the “Enter” before pushing it open. M was sitting at his desk, closing a file. Bond’s eyes narrowed as he spotted Mr Turing curled on M’s desk, well within arm’s reach: all too obvious that M had been petting the cat while reading.

As if on cue, Mr Turing opened his eyes, lifted his head, and sent an annoyed hiss and glare in Bond’s direction.

“Yes, sorry I’m back,” Bond snapped, and then realised he’d spoken out loud when M asked a startled “What?”

“Sorry, Sir, I meant the cat.”

M stared at him as if Bond had grown a second head. Q sniggered, at least his mood had lightened.

“Are you quite alright, Bond? You do realise that the cat can’t talk,” M leaned back while indicating chairs and a space for Q’s wheelchair.

“I know, Sir, but _this_ cat can make its intentions known non-verbally, trust me.”

M glanced at the cat, which put on an expression of feline innocence, and then back at Bond. “If you say so,” he said noncommittally. “He’s been quite well behaved with me,” he told Q, then changed the subject. “How is your recovery going?”

“It would be better if I wasn’t made to fly in a death trap.”

M looked at Eve, with a half-exasperated expression on his face as though he really wasn’t up to dealing with tetchy agents and quartermasters today.

She merely shrugged, putting the ball firmly back into his court. At least she gave him a clue: “The medical staff at the hospital have ordered a minimum of three weeks of house rest.”

“ _Arrest_ you mean,” Q complained angrily.

“Like you’re going to be climbing around your lair without legs,” she retorted, “and I happen to know Property has set up a nice little office for you at your house.”

“Also,” Bond looked pointedly at Q, “I contacted my physiotherapist, the one you liked so much, because begin quote - she was no-nonsense and wouldn’t take any shit from me – quote end.”

“Sounds like the perfect woman,” Eve’s grin was back.

M sighed and steepled his hands. He focused on Q. “Do I understand correctly that you have agreed to an upgraded security detail?”

Q set his lip. “Badgered into it, more like.”

“Go on,” Bond appeared to be entirely blasé, “you can say it out loud. I threatened to personally break your arms if you didn’t agree.”

M gave Bond a startled look just as Mr Turing, seemingly tired of being forgotten, jumped off the desk with a thump and stalked over to sit at Q’s feet, glaring at Bond the whole way.

Bond shrugged. “I figured it was safer for Q to have his arms broken than to be kidnapped again.”

“I see,” M steepled his fingers once more, “and I must say I agree.”

Q let out an indignant squawk, which was ignored.

“I am very pleased, Sir, that we are in agreement this time.” Bond talked to M, as if Q wasn’t in the room, while Eve’s grin had become positively evil.

Q spluttered before waving his arms. “I’m here you know,” he hollered. “Why did you summon us anyway?”

“To give you a summary of what has been happening while you were being rescued.”

“At last,” Bond muttered. He’d never dealt well with not being fully informed.

“Did you say something, Commander Bond?” M asked pointedly, reaping nothing but a barely shielded glare.

“Well, then,” M stood up as the lights dimmed slightly and an image projected onto the bare wall behind his desk. “This is Hassan Mohammed Ali.”

Bond narrowed his eyes, but even after squinting at the face, there was no recognition. He glanced at Q, who shrugged as well.

“Not his real name, of course,” M added as an afterthought. “He is – and all present information is that he still _is_ – the leader of a sub-branch of al-Shabaab. Their information gathering arm.” He paused. “We found a fake photo ID in that name in the building where Q was retrieved, which triggered our facial recognition technology. Accompanying the ID were partial access codes to our networks, and those of several key NATO members.”

“Where is he now, Sir?” Bond never once took his eyes of the photo projection.

“Yemen, with 007 on his tail.”

Bond tensed, an involuntary reaction he couldn’t suppress. “I see.” His jaw clenched, his lips a tight line. He refused to meet Q’s suddenly concerned glance.

M continued, without acknowledging Bond’s reaction. “What we have been able to find, is a sophisticated operation targeting low ranking IT contractors, and gaining access to systems via routine maintenance. Talat has been undertaking a thorough audit of systems,” he pre-empted Q’s question.

Q opened his mouth, but before he could get a word in, Bond was speaking up.

“What I don’t understand, Sir, is how this could have gone on under MI6’s radar. How Q, MI6’s invaluable Quartermaster, could have been kidnapped and tortured without anyone having the faintest clue.” Bonds voice was getting progressively sharper, his left hand clenching into a white knuckled fist. “This is starting to sound more and more like the Quantum debacle to me.”

“James...” Q said softly.

Bond stopped and turned to Q. “No.”

The word was unexpected, and Q twitched. “No? No, what?”

“No, I will not let this go.”

M interjected sharply. “Gentlemen, if I could get a word in,” but was cut off immediately by Bond.

“No, Sir. I will _not_ let this go. If this is a repeat of the Quantum disaster then I demand to know how it could have possibly happened again, how no one noticed anything amiss, and how MI6’s Quartermaster almost died.”

“That’s enough, Bond!” M slammed his hands onto the desk in front of him. He got out of his seat, glowering at Bond. “You are not a double-O any longer, and you are not to question the operation of MI6 as an _Evaluator of Junior Agents_.”

The sudden silence in the room seemed as dangerous as a blade.

“What am I evaluating them for, if they are more in danger from the incompetence of their own organisation than their targets?” Bond snarled.

Eve stifled a gasp, and Q took in an audible breath.

M’s voice had turned utterly sharp. “I do not condone the sort of insubordination that my predecessor might have let go during your service as double-O. If you cannot remain professional, Commander Bond, and keep your personal allegiance from your professional one, then I suggest you should retire.”

“And let all of this happen again in a few years?” Bond’s lip curled, “I wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction.”

“So you even refuse to retire.” M was still standing, towering over Bond, intent on following through with the stand-off. Alpha against Alpha.

“I refuse to take ill-advised steps. If that is what you mean, then yes, Sir.”

Q remained silent, slightly shaking his head. Eve’s eyes went from one to the other and back again. Neither daring to step into the firing line.

Blue eyes met,  level, unwavering - one arctic brilliance, the other grey-hued inscrutability - neither willing to look away first. M made to move around his desk, but halted in his tracks at a feline scream that all but shook the corners of the room.

“Mr T!” Q shouted, forgetting about the injuries. He tried to stand up in the wheelchair, and immediately fell back with a scream that rivalled the cat’s.

M bent down behind the desk, while Bond just as quickly crossed the short distance to Q, sinking to his knees beside the wheelchair. Eve vacillated, not sure whether to go to the assistance of human or cat.

M had the cat in his arms when he sat back down, stroking the still upset feline and apologising for accidentally treading on its tail. Bond had taken hold of Q’s hand with his left, their foreheads touching while he was quietly talking to calm him.

Eve looked from one set of soothing male to the other, then got up to the coffee machine cum tea urn in M’s office. She proceeded to prepare four cups of tea. By the time she turned back with the china mugs on a small tray, the feline and the boffin, as well as both growling lions, had calmed down.

“Well,” she said, a hint too cheery, “shall we start again?”

M looked up and deposited the cat on his lap with a faintly embarrassed look, just as Q and Bond turned their attention to Eve.

“Tea, everyone?” She smiled brightly. Not expecting and neither wanting an answer, she deposited a mug in front of each of the men, including Bond, who never drank tea.

“James, I think we all know you only lose your temper like that when it’s about Q.” Eve sent a very pointed look at him, which had the desired, mildly chastising effect. “Sir,” she addressed Mallory once she’d sat down herself, “may I suggest that retiring Commander Bond might be a little premature?”

M coughed, and after a moment, returned to his narrative. “As stated previously, they were missing the high level entry into the systems. Which is why they targeted the smartphone of one of our regular security guards in the basement car park, and thus some two months ago, a pattern was established.” He looked significantly at Q, who frowned at him.

“I only enter the basement car park when I arrive with James.”

“Yes, and when he’s not in London, you take the Tube here.” M’s voice was too neutral.

“Without telling me,” Bond growled quietly, earning himself a gentle nudge from Q.

“I wanted to maintain some semblance of a normal life,” Q sighed, “so I took the tube on the days Mr Turing didn’t feel like coming in. They must have known I would be without protection some time that week.”

Bond, predictably, glared at the cat first.

The cat ignored him.

“Oldest trick in the book,” M agreed. “They simply had someone wait outside your flat.”

“I still don’t understand how MI6 could have missed the signs of hacking,” Bond interjected, more reasonable this time round.

“Too low-level,” Q explained, “no one would have thought of checking the personal mobile phone of a security guard in the underground car park for signs of being compromised.” He sighed, “an oversight.”

“Particularly when the car park security guards are all outsourced now,” Eve agreed.

Bond shook his head. “I used to be called paranoid, but it seems to me, you haven’t been paranoid enough.”

“I fear you are right,” M grudgingly agreed. A moment of silence, and M continued, addressing Q. “The only small relief was that they didn’t seem to be aware you were the Quartermaster - their information had you as a senior IT manager.”

Q blinked. “Excuse me? With a well-planned kidnap such as this? They didn’t even know who I was?”

“Not Quantum, then,” Bond murmured.

“What made them think I would have been able to hack into MI6 as a mere IT lackey?” Q’s outrage made Bond snort.

“One reason it took a while to dig to the bottom of this. Mixed bag of intelligence, leaked, hacked, and some plain wrong and yet some disturbingly close.”

“It occurs to me,” Bond stated, “that this mix indicates known and unknown quantities. Some of the modus operandus bears a striking resemblance to Quantum operations, while others hint at Al Qaeda and possible, from what I was able to glean during my interaction with involved parties,” a euphemism if here ever was one, “a yet unknown entity originating in Africa. I’d hazard a guess: West Africa.”

“Close,” M said, “depending on what geographer you listen to.” He hesitated, then deposited Mr Turing on his desk before picking up the remote control again, showing a map of the continent.

 “Where does Crippen fit in?” Bond asked.

“Ah yes, interesting you should mention him,” M waved at the map. “It appears that back in the 90s, when he was seconded to a peacekeeping mission in Liberia and then Sierra Leone, he made a few contacts that he did not introduce to anyone else.”

“Bastard,” Bond murmured. He’d been friends with the man - as much as he had been friends with anyone - for years, and he’d never noticed anything untoward.

Q glanced at Bond. “Crippen must have been very good, if even James didn’t detect anything.” The use of Bond’s first name had been creeping in over the years, without anyone really noticing.

“Crippen was subtle enough to keep his continuing contacts very occasional, and very discreet,” M agreed. “Not to mention back then, the payment for his information was much less traceable than the bank transfers of later years, when he got a bit more sophisticated or a little less wary.”

“Jewellery,” Eve explained. There hadn’t been time yet to brief Bond nor Q on their interim findings. “Crippen was paid in diamonds, which he had set in jewellery, then sold on the basis that they were inherited from his family.”

Bond frowned, shifting in his seat to take pressure off his injured side. “Blood diamonds?”

“This was before the Kimberley Process,” Eve confirmed, “but even so I doubt they would have passed.”

“So what you are saying,” Q summarised, “is that this was a combination of a long-established criminal organisation or remnants of said organisation or organisations, and some recent, less well-developed but no less dangerous one or ones.”

“Chad.” Bond suddenly said.

“What?” Everyone focused on him.

“Chad. It makes sense. The French connection, the rebel fighting in 2007-08, and it is locked between Mali to the West - and Niger - and Sudan to the east.”

M narrowed his eyes, a gesture echoed by Mr Turing. “Correct,” he said curtly.

“Who do you have in Chad?” Bond asked.

“The new 002, Beauchamp,” M leaned forward to stroke the cat, “making gains.”

Tension flowed out of Bond almost instantly. “Excellent choice. I assume Jacobs has partnered her? They do, I can confirm from first-hand experience, work formidably together.”

Q raised his brows but said nothing. Bond had recounted their exploits in gritty detail.

“Yes, under the guise of being engineers working for an NGO,” M confirmed, “A surprisingly good cover, we might develop it further.” He paused and then returned to the subject at hand. “They’re nearing the base of the Chadian offshoot of Boko Haram.”

“I was there in 2007,” Bond frowned, “when the rebels attacked.”

“Of course you were, right in the thick of it,” Q muttered, earning himself a brief smirk from everyone except Bond, who ignored him.

“Official word is, Boko Haram does not have any influence outside of Nigeria. I understand our intelligence has proven otherwise?”

“Let’s say geographic borders are more like guidelines,” M replied drily, “and the franchise model is working quite well for Boko Haram, almost as well as it did for Al Qaeda”

“If they aren’t working together already,” Bond mused.

“Oh,” Q let out an audible breath, “that reminds me of something the kidnapper said to me. Something about drugs, but they kept saying it as a joke.”

“Great ‘joke’, darling,” Eve frowned.

“The Bolivian connection.” Bond sat up straight once more. “The drug operations, put them into the context of Afghanistan and its drug production, and add to that Al Qaeda and Boko Haram, with an added complication of British troops in Afghanistan and one high status military man, Crippen, selling internal information. What does that combination make?”

“An exceedingly large mess, with the drug lords and Al Qaeda and Boko Haram finding mutual benefits, and sharing information about us,” M began.

“A far wider-reaching problem than initially thought,” Q continued.

“Treason,” Eve added. “We don’t even know how deep this is rooted in UK intelligence.”

“Quantum again,” Bond shook his head, “only that it isn’t Quantum.”

“Does 002 know?” Q asked.

“Yes,” M nodded, “She and Jacobs have been liaising only with Talat and my office directly.  No-one else.  Officially, they’re on leave and being subtle about going together, to, apparently, have one last try at a relationship.”

Bond smirked, “I’d have liked to see the first try. Chalk and cheese.”

“That is hardly of any concern right now,” M chastised, but it clearly had no effect, if Bond’s continuing smirk was any indication.

“If there is anything I can do to help, Sir...” Bond let the offer stand in the room.

“I can tell you what you can do to help,” M retorted, casting a pointed glance at Eve, who picked up the thread.

“You can take Q home and make sure he does exactly what he is supposed to, and nothing else. I am sure you’ll be able to keep our Quartermaster in check, won’t you, James?” She smiled sweetly.

“Opportunity would be a fine thing,” Bond groused, while Q glared at everyone in the room.

“You’ve done your part, getting Q home,” Eve turned serious. “Let 002 prove you right about her ability.”

Bond looked at her for a moment, considering, and then he nodded. “Agreed. It’s time the next generation proved their worth. I will be available if you need any historical information, as befits my dinosaur status.”

“Damn right,” Q teased to lighten the mood. “A dinosaur through and through, who is not going to keep me from working remotely, because I do not happen to require feet for that.”

“Or toes, or ankles.” Bond growled.

“Says _you_ of all people.”

“Gentlemen!” M interrupted the two men. “I think you should continue your domestics at home. Bond, I trust you ensure our Quartermaster won’t be overtaxing himself with remote work.”

Bond nodded. “Of course, Sir.”

“And Q, you will listen, won’t you? If you don’t, I am going to have your access to the networks revoked.”

“As if anyone could,” Q murmured under his breath.

“Pardon?” M raised his brows.

“Nothing,” Q smiled, mimicking - and not quite succeeding - Eve’s trademark look of innocence.

“Good, I will talk to you later.” M stood up, Mr Turing on his arm.

Sending another glare at the cat, which sublimely ignored him, Bond went and stood behind Q to wheel him out, before Q could think of asking for the return of the blasted creature.


	18. Chapter 18

The past three months had been hard for everyone at MI6, for a variety of reasons. Not only was there confirmation of more leaks, TSS had been under strain to provide intelligence and support without Q, their acerbic leader, constantly at the helm. He had been working remotely at first, then went into HQ in his wheelchair whenever he wasn’t occupied, often by force - a blond-haired blue-eyed one-armed force – with physio and exercise. It still never seemed enough, not with SIS working full-out on combating the new threat that had emerged onto the scene three months previously.

* * * * *

“What are you doing back here again? “ Talat frowned as Q emerged from the lift. He’d got rid of the crutches only that week, but was still in the special boots for the foreseeable future.

“Guess.” Q rolled his eyes in a very immature manner. “Trying to save the world. Again.”

“It’s the 24th of December. Does that ring any bells?”

“Does it for you?” Q quipped back.

“It’s Christmas Eve!” she sounded disapproving.

“So?” Q carefully walked over to the central console, where a high stool had been set up for him, with low back support and ergonomic foot rest. “It’s 11AM on Christmas eve. The word _eve_ telling you anything?”

In a mirror to Q’s own earlier reaction, she rolled her eyes. “Of course it does. ‘Evening’, but unlike many of your minions, you do actually have a partner.”

“So?” Q repeated, raising his brows in challenge this time.

“So?” She mimicked, brows raised to equal height. “Commander Bond might want to spend Christmas Eve with you?”

“As we said before: _eve_ , Talat. Eve equals evening. You may be my second in command, but you’re not particularly perceptive today.”

She ignored Q’s mild insults, well aware of the good-natured manner their were made in. “Just as long as you remember to go home in time, oh fearless leader.”

Q snorted at the moniker. “James is going to pick me up this afternoon, fear not, oh minion.”

She laughed, and left Q to his ‘battlestation’.

* * * * *

Most of the day passed in a relaxed fashion, as though the world’s villains were taking a break for the holidays...until 4pm London time. 002’s feed came through the room as her handler hit the ‘extraction needed’ alarm.

“Shit!” Q swore rarely, but when he did, everyone knew the situation really was serious.

It soon turned out to be even worse than initially thought. Not only 002, Special Agent Beauchamp, needed extraction out of a life threatening situation, but a whole team, including her handler and a small group of techs. On top of it, no one knew how badly 002 was injured, and the extraction area couldn’t be accessed by land without entering territories that were strictly off limits for official UK involvement. Pulling out the compromised team required more than Q-branch, thus Tanner and Eve had joined Q branch in the basement, working out the political as well as practical aspects. M had put any overly optimistic plans of actually getting out of HQ on hold.

An outsourced helicopter, posing as a documentary film crew, had just taken off for the rescue mission when Bond stepped out of the lift at 4PM on the dot. He walked straight into controlled chaos, with Q in the middle, perched on his stool, fingers flying over several keyboards and eyes flicking between the vast wall monitors.

Bond bodily grabbed hold of a peripheral minion. “What happened?” He wouldn’t dare disturb Q’s concentration, or anyone else’s in the midst, for that matter.

“002, our supposed allies gave us the wrong intelligence, and sent her right into a terrorist hive in hostile territory. The whole mission’s blown, and we have to get her team out before it gets any worse. “

Bond’s face settled back into the well-worn and overly practiced mask of utter stillness. “Sitrep? Is 002 compromised?” No emotions on the surface, nothing to indicate sudden fear. Sentiment. Friendship. Caring. Fear was what happened when the guards were down, but he couldn’t go back to who he’d been before his final mission.

“Yes, but no special requirements for the evac,” the minion nodded, “gunshot wounds and a possible dislocated knee.”

Bond nodded once. His reaction as curt as it needed to be to hide the momentary flare of relief. “Who else in on her team?”

“Her handler, Smithers this time, Jacobs had to go for the Andorra job - and two technical support.”

Tom Jacobs was more than a mere handler, they must have been convinced the mission would be straightforward, what with working alongside so-called allies. Weren’t those missions always the ones that went most spectacularly pear-shaped?

“Is Jacobs back?” If he found out about 002, it wouldn’t be pretty. As far as Bond knew (and since when was he privy to peoples’ private lives?) Jacobs had just been dumped by his last girlfriend and wouldn’t be in the best frame of mind to start with.

“He handed his gear in just after lunch,” the minion confirmed, “he should still be with Analysis downloading his mission report.”

“Good,” Bond gave another nod, “I won’t keep you any longer.” With that he cast one last look at Q, then at Eve and Tanner. He even glanced at Talat, who was organising a bunch of coders in one corner.

Bond checked his Patek watch, five minutes past four, and pulled out his mobile as the lift doors closed once more behind him. Sending a quick text to Q’s private mobile, which he knew wouldn’t be read until after the situation had been dealt with, telling him he’d be back later. He’d got used to giving notice of his whereabouts, a novel action, but he’d been told off by a fretting Q once too often.

The lift pinged at the floor Analysis was housed in, and Bond purposefully strode towards the hot-desking area.

Tom was just getting up from one of the desks, rolling his shoulders as he did so. He caught sight of Bond as he reached for his jacket, surprise written across his face. Analysis was not a department Bond was found in often. “Sir?”

“Tom,” Bond greeted, “I need your help.”

Tom’s face took on serious lines. “What’s happened?”

“I need you to help organise a Christmas eve dinner right here in MI6, with 50 minutes to spare.” The easy one first. “002 and her team are in a spot of trouble and need to be extracted. Not straightforward, hence everyone is needed downstairs.”

Tom’s eyes widened. “What? Are they alright?”

“For now, it seems. “ Bond held up his left hand, hesitating only a heartbeat, before placing it on Tom’s arm. He’d learned to be a lot more human since his final mission. “There is nothing you nor I can do. The very best are currently working on the extraction, which is not your area of expertise, let alone mine. What we _can_ do, however, is ensure there will be something for the team to come to, when the extraction has been successfully finished.” When, not if. “You’ve just wasted another two minutes, and the last shops will be closing at five.”

Tom opened his mouth, as though to argue, then shut it. “Yes, that’s true, but there should be plenty of restaurants that’ll do some decent meals for us - Chinese, Japanese, Turkish, Indian...” he murmured. “Not very Christmassy, but I can’t see being able to get a roast goose at this hour.”

“No, and the one I have waiting at home is neither roasted, nor destined for anything but tomorrow.” Bond let his hand slide off Tom’s arm. “What I need you to do is get to Harrods, as soon as possible, and grab every bit of festive decoration that you can. I don’t care if it is gaudy or even embarrassing. Also, get hold of the last remnants of festive treats, biscuits, puddings, nibbles, whatever you can find. Use your card on the expense account, I’ll organise repayment later.” Bond stepped back, “I’ll sort the rest.”

Tom nodded, mentally calculating distance. “I should be back at about half past five. “

“I will leave a note of the location I am going to commandeer at reception.” Bond paused, “and Tom,” first names, that’s what having friends did to one once the double-O career was over, “Lucy will be alright. Except for the actual genetic connection, she is to all intents and purposes my younger self.”

Tom gave a reluctant grin. “The others were joking she was your daughter in all ways but the least important.” With that he left, determined and trying not to show his underlying worry.

“That she is,”  Bond said quietly at Tom’s retreating back, before moving into action.

* * * * *

M had just cancelled the latest phone call of a string of so many that he’d lost count, when he noticed the flashing light, which denoted someone’s request to enter. Checking the visual intercom, he was surprised to find Bond.

“Come in,” M buzzed him through himself. Eve was downstairs in Q branch as his direct link.

“Sir,” Bond headed directly for M, for once not sparing a glance at Mr Turing, who had taken up residence on the most comfortable visitor chair. “I need clearance and your permission to commandeer the main meeting room.”

M raised an eyebrow. “What for? On Christmas Eve?”

“Exactly. _For_ Christmas Eve.”

It took M a few seconds to catch on. “You think they’ll be in the mood for a party after the extraction?”

“Yes, because firstly, the extraction will be successful, and secondly, you of all people, as the director of SIS, should know that MI6 employees with partners and a home to go to, are extremely rare. Only your Chief of Staff comes to my mind, and that merely because his wife is MI6 as well.” ‘I set them up like a very lethal cupid’, he didn’t add.

“And you and Q,” M added, “but I see your point. Granted. I’ll give Catering a call, and they can bring out the plates and glasses from the canteen. From memory there should be drinks in the fridge in the meeting room.”

“Permission to commandeer one or two drivers to run errands, if they are amenable to work extra for remuneration I am offering them? I need someone to raid my wine cellar.”

“If you can find any of them around I have no objection,” M said smoothly.

“I will.” Bond flashed a sharp grin. “I will see you at the dinner when the extraction has finished.” This was no invitation, but a request. “Sir.” Bond gave a miniature bow, before heading out through the double-doors.

M looked at the retreating Bond for a second, before returning to his files. “It’s Bond,” he told the cat, “he has impeccable taste, there will be something for you.”

* * * * *

The next three hours were as hectic for Bond and everyone else he’d roped into his plan, as they were for the key staff organising the complex rescue mission. It had turned almost 8PM, when Bond received a message from M, giving the all clear. A message he immediately relayed to Tom and Bianca. The latter had turned up at HQ with the baby asleep in a carry-crib, to join everyone else.

Bond made his way back down to Q branch. He found Q leaning wearily against his battle station, but with a smile on his face. “The team just crossed into Turkish airspace,” he told Bond as he came in, “transferring to a medevac plane to Germany.”

“How is 002 holding up? Any more casualties?” Bond took in the room and everyone in it with one glance, waiting for the message to appear on all their work stations. Bianca had been convincing to M.

“Holding up well, but she’ll need surgery on the knee. Rest just flesh wounds. Smithers broke his collarbone, but the techs are unharmed.”

“Good,” Bond allowed his relief to show this time. “Nothing that won’t heal with time.” He smiled as a simultaneous ‘ping’ announced a message of the highest order. Everyone’s heads swivelled to the nearest screen, including Q, who - like all the others - stared at the short note in confusion.

‘Immediate assembly in meeting room 1.’ It said, nothing else.

“And now, since it is Christmas Eve,” Bond announced, “I believe it is traditional to have a party.”

“What?” Q was the first one to pull himself out of his shock. “A party? Here? How...?”

Bond just smiled and walked over to Q to offer his left shoulder and arm as support instead of a cane. He knew Q would be stiff and aching, and the first steps onto the floor would be painful. “Trust me,” he murmured into Q’s ear before addressing everyone else. “Ladies and gentlemen, please follow me to meeting room 1.”

Bond led the procession through the corridors and up the stairs until they arrived at the main meeting room. The long table had been covered with a white cloth found in the bowels of Catering, and the walls were hung with tinsel and bright decorations. Electronic candles had been placed on the central display and the surrounding smaller ones that had been pushed against the walls. On the table itself stood a boggling variety of food - from Indian curries to pizza, sushi, cheeses, Turkish kebabs - with a number of cakes and biscuits at the far end for dessert, plus bowls of snacks dotted around. Two of the smaller tables were holding a variety of drinks. One had both soft drinks and spirits, pilfered from the meeting room supply itself. The other held an impressive arrangement of wine bottles, which Q immediately realised were from Bond’s own exclusive stash and would most likely be wasted on most of them.

M himself stepped out of a corner, glass already in hand. Jacobs and Tennyson-Tanner joined him a little way behind. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Mallory addressed everyone, “Merry Christmas to you all, and congratulations to another successful extraction. Everyone who does not have any other plans is most welcome to this impromptu Christmas Eve party, thanks to Commander Bond.”

The room broke into bewildered, if genuine applause, which Bond had absolutely no idea what to do with. Opting for ignoring it instead, he pointed at the drinks and the food. “Enjoy.” He immediately turned away from everyone and focused on Q instead, trying to usher him onto a chair.

“You did all that?” Q was resisting Bond’s insistence, looking intently at him, in something between amazement, awe and amusement.

“So what,” Bond gruffly replied, “I promised you a Christmas Eve meal, but you were not able to come home. Here it is.”

Q smiled, relaxed as he finally let Bond herd him over to the chair. “What a meal, how did you get it organised so quickly?”

“Thanks go to Tom and his charm that convinced the good people at Harrods to break all speed records in gathering whatever was left in decorations, and those in the foodhall to pack up their last remaining Christmas foods. And M, of course, who was easily swayed by my argument.”

Q was still looking at Bond with that mixture of awe and amusement. “I’ll bet,” he smiled. “Thank you.”

“Well, yes,” Bond shrugged one-shouldered as if it meant nothing, “I’m just glad that 002 is safe.”

Q looked around the room: Bill and Bianca Tennyson-Tanner were fussing over their baby while tucking into the eclectic mix of world-food; Tom was chatting with a young woman from BioChem, standing too close and both of them smiling too much; his own Q-branch minions honing onto Bond’s wine stash like vultures while laughing and pulling a variety of Christmas crackers; Eve talking and sniggering with the head doctor from Medical, a fierce lady who had the worst bedside manner in the history of bedside manners and was absolutely perfect for the double-Os; and M feeding prawns to Mr Turing, who had settled on his arm.

Q looked back at Bond and grinned stupidly. “I love you too, James.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This concludes the Nil Desperandum series.


End file.
